4 


BACCARAT 

A  NOVEL 

FRANK  DANBY 


Author  of  Pigs  in  Clover 


I 


/« 


BACCARAT 


PIGS  IN  CLOVER 
By  Frank  Danby 


MORGANATIC 

By  Max  Nord.au 

$t-S° 

OLIVE  LATHAM 
By  E.  L.  Voynich 
$i-5° 

JACK  RAYMOND 
By  E.  L.  Voynich 
$i-5° 

THE  CHALLONERS 
By  E.  F.  Benson. 
$1.50 

AN  ANGEL  BY  BREVET 
By  Helen  Pitkin 

Frontispiece.    £1.50 

KITTY  OF  THE  ROSES 
By  Ralph  Henry  Barbour 
With  illustrations  in  colors 
and  tint.    $2.00 

NEW  SAMARIA 

By  S.  Weir  Mitchell 

Illustrated.     #1.25 

POKETOWN  PEOPLE 

By  Ella  Middleton  Tybout 
Illustrated  in  colors.    $1.50 


BACCARAT 

By 
Frank  Danby 

Author  of  "  Pigs  in  Clover,"  etc. 


PHILADELPHIA    AND   LONDON 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by  AINSLEE  MAGAZINE  Co. 


COPYRIGHT,   1904 
BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


Published  November,  1904 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  by 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.S.  A. 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


He  began  re-reading  her  letter  in  the  train  to  Paris 

Frontispiece 

Julie  sat  on  the  sands  with  the  children 39 

He  had  an  eye,  this  Monsieur  Diderot,  and  her  contours 

satisfied  it 59 

Le"on  Diderot,  seated  opposite  to  her  at  the  narrow 
table,  had  once  more  that  expression  of  satisfied 
connoisseurship 93 

There  were  many  to  note  her  going.  But  only  those 
who  were  seated  at  the  table  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders, or  smiled  their  knowing  smile 109 

They  had  sent  for  a  doctor.     He  had  been  with  her,  and 

yet  again 138 


/-*" 


BACCARAT 


CHAPTER    I 

"  HAVE  it  your  own  way,"  said  John  Courtney 
to  his  wife.  "  They  are  young  yet,  and  I  should 
have  thought  they  spoke  French  pretty  well  for 
their  ages.  But  if  you've  set  your  heart  on  a 
French  seaside  holiday  instead  of  an  English  one, 
why,  we  must  see  about  finding  the  right  place." 

It  was  an  unusually  long  speech  for  John,  but 
there  was  nothing  unusual  in  his  saying  "  yes"  to 
all  his  wife's  requests,  nothing  unusual  in  the 

7 


8  BACCARAT 

light  that  came  into  his  eyes  when  he  looked 
upon  her. 

"  We  ought  to  go  where  there  are  no  English 
families,  where  they  will  hear  nothing  but  French 
from  morning  until  night,  where  they  will  play 
with  French  children,  and  get  the  accent,"  she 
went  on,  from  that  vantage  coign  of  the  stool  at 
his  feet,  whence  it  was  so  easy  to  lay  a  caressing 
head  against  his  knee.  "  Is  that  not  so,  my 
John?" 

The  possessive  pronoun  came  often  to  her  lips 
when  they  were  alone.  It  had  never  ceased  to 
seem  wonderful  to  her  that  these  six  solid  feet  of 
English  manhood,  so  big  and  gruff  and  grey, 
should  belong  to  her  exclusively;  how  exclu- 
sively, it  was  hardly  within  her  to  divine. 

But,  of  course,  except  to  Julie,  there  was  noth- 
ing very  wonderful  about  John  Courtney.  He 
was  just  a  level-headed  provincial  lawyer,  who 
had  gradually  established  himself  in  the  confidence 
of  his  fellow  townsmen  from  the  time  when  he 
had  been  a  lanky  orphan,  and  Aunt  Sophia  had 
been  able  to  boast: 


BACCARAT  9 

"  There's  one  thing  about  my  nephew  John, 
you  can  rely  upon  him;  he  always  keeps  his 
word." 

This  had  been  a  simple  thing  to  him  as  a  boy; 
up  to  now,  it  had  hardly  seemed  less  simple  to 
him  as  a  man. 

"  Stick  to  your  contract,  never  mind  if  you 
wrote  or  spoke  it;  stick  to  it." 

That  was  the  advice  you  got  at  John's  office; 
it  had  come  to  be  a  byword  in  the  town,  almost 
a  jest.  Yet  the  public  probity  benefited  by  it. 
Young  as  he  was,  for  his  hair  was  not  grey  with 
the  weight  of  years,  he  had  an  influence.  Men 
spoke  well  of  him,  and  deservedly. 

Marriage  had  been  a  contract  with  John 
Courtney.  It  will  be  seen  how  he  kept,  not  only 
to  the  letter,  but  to  the  unvowed  spirit  of  it. 

He  and  Julie  had  been  married  nearly  nine 
years,  yet  she  was  still  well  under  thirty,  and, 
although  she  had  borne  him  two  children,  her 
figure,  svelte  and  curved  and  graceful,  was  almost 
a  girl's  figure;  her  face,  with  its  low  brow  and 
dark  lashes,  its  sparkling  eyes,  and  scarlet  lips, 


10  BACCARAT 

its  piquant  dimpling  and  mobility,  was  but  a  girl's 
face.  All  these  years  she  had  been  in  John's  safe 
keeping,  and  she  was  still  fresh  and  sweet  as  the 
day  she  gave  herself  to  him. 

"  Oh !  Oui,  it  is  time  I  saw  my  terre  natale 
again.  Almost  I  have  forgotten  it.  Picture  to 
yourself,  my  John,  if  you  had  left  England  eight, 
nine,  ten  years,  and  all  suddenly  it  came  upon  you, 
that  desire,  nostalgia,  what  you  call  it,  for  the 
'  white  cliffs  of  Albion.' '  She  mocked  his  tone, 
and  he  smiled  down  upon  her. 

"Eh?    Did  I  say  that?" 

"  You  don't  make  speeches,  you  silent  John, 
you  John  who  never  talk.  But  I  have  heard  that 
pretty  prose,  every  English  one  say  it.  When  I 
saw  them  first,  your  white  cliffs,  I  was  triste,  and 
sick.  Ah!  but  you  were  waiting.  Do  you  re- 
member?" 

"  Oh !   yes,  I  remember." 

She  was  never  tired  of  hearing  that  he  remem- 
bered. 

"  And  then,  at  once,  you  say  to  yourself;  is  it 
not  so  ? — '  there  is  she  who  must  be  my  wife,  that 


BACCARAT  11 

little  girl  on  the  deck,  so  forlorn,  whose  father,  I 
must  tell  her,  is  dead,  that  girl  out  of  the  convent 

who  knows  nothing,  and  is  worth  nothing '  " 

But  he  put  his  hand  over  her  mouth: 
"  That's  enough.    Now,  about  this  holiday?" 
She  kissed  the  hand  that  touched  her  lips,  and 
went  on  chattering  gaily,  exhausting  the  capacity 
of  a  three  or  four  weeks'  summer  holiday,  ranging 
over  all  the  Normandy  and  Brittany  sea  coasts, 
flirting  with  the  idea,  now  of  this,  now  of  the 
other,  impossible  journey. 

The  house  was  to  be  done  up  whilst  they  were 
away.  They  had  been  married  nine  years,  and 
nothing  had  been  done  to  it.  It  was  small  and 
unpretentious,  but  they  had,  each  in  his  or  her  own 
way,  been  very  proud  of  its  possession.  It  is  not 
every  man  of  five-  or  six-and-twenty,  in  a  pro- 
fession, too,  who  can  start  married  life  in  a  dou- 
ble-fronted villa  in  the  Mayo  Road,  Southampton, 
with  a  garden  at  the  back,  and  a  garden  in  front, 
and  a  rental  of  sixty  pounds  a  year.  It  was  true 
John  had  had  to  get  the  furniture  on  the  hire 
system.  But  within  three  years  it  was  all  his 


12  BACCARAT 

own!  The  iron  bedsteads  and  the  Brussels  car- 
pets, the  walnut  suite  in  the  dining-room,  and  the 
ebonised  and  gilt  in  the  drawing-room,  it  all  be- 
longed to  him,  to  him  and  Julie,  within  those 
three  years.  He  was  not  satisfied  until  he  was 
free  from  debt;  it  had  been  a  struggle,  he  knew 
it  now,  when  he  was  safe,  more  than  safe,  begin- 
ning to  accumulate,  even  invest,  make  provision 
for  all  eventualities.  But  it  was  the  struggle  and 
anxiety  of  those  first  few  years  that  had  turned  his 
hair  grey.  John  Courtney  was  a  big,  loose- jointed 
fellow,  rather  awkward,  with  feet  and  hands  too 
prominent,  but  the  grey  hair  gave  him  a  touch 
of  distinction.  He  looked  ten  years  older  than 
his  age. 

He  was  a  proud  man  now,  as  well  as  a  happy 
one,  holding  his  grey  head  upright.'  For  the 
house  belonged  to  him,  and  the  furniture  of  it, 
and  he  had  earned  it  all  for  her.  Julie  had  helped 
him  loyally.  All  his  friends  who  had  shaken  their 
heads  over  his  marriage  with  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
straight  out  of  a  convent,  had  had  to  admit  that, 
although  she  was  French,  and  a  papist,  John  had 


BACCARAT  13 

made  no  mistake.  Julie  developed  a  genius  for 
housewifery.  She  learnt  how  to  cook ;  her  needle- 
work was  a  marvel  to  behold,  she  could  make  a 
blouse  or  a  baby's  frock,  she  found  the  prettiest 
way  to  deck  her  babies.  And  always  she  sang  and 
laughed  amid  her  work,  talking  gaily  of  all  her 
little  economies,  running  down  to  meet  John  daily 
at  the  garden  gate,  recounting  to  him,  before  he 
had  time  to  get  into  the  house,  all  the  wondrous 
things  she  had  done  or  planned,  or  begun.  She 
was  very  proud  of  her  home  and  of  her  big  hus- 
band. It  isn't  every  girl  of  eighteen,  without  a 
dot,  who  is  mistress  of  a  house,  and  a  big  hus- 
band. 

John  did  not  seem  the  type  of  man  to  whom 
his  wife  would  chatter  such  frivolities.  He  him- 
self had  not  the  gift  of  flowing  language.  He 
was  not  demonstrative,  nor  given  over-much  to 
speech  at  all.  But  she  must  have  known  him 
sympathetic,  and  divined  that  he  liked  to  listen, 
for  all  these  years  she  had  gone  on  talking. 

Gradually  they  had  added,  and  added,  always 
to  the  hired  furniture.  They  had  felt  justified  in 


14  BACCARAT 

ordering  reckless  loads  of  gravel  for  the  pathway 
to  the  gate,  and  grass  for  the  plots  on  either  side 
of  it.  The  gate  was  re-painted  yearly.  Julie's 
window  curtains,  flower  boxes,  and  doorsteps 
were  models  for  suburban  Southampton. 

A  man  can  afford  to  indulge  his  wife's  taste  for 
such  things  when  her  weekly  bills  for  house- 
keeping are  under  three  pounds,  and  every  meal 
is  set  before  him  with  the  surprise  of  some  new 
dainty  dish.  John's  pride  in  his  house  was 
eclipsed  by  John's  pride  in  his  wife :  but  his  love 
for  her  made  both  insignificant  in  comparison. 

Julie  had  learnt  English  from  her  mother ;  and 
they  had  taught  it  to  her  too  in  the  convent. 
They  had  taught  her  little  else;  she  read  rarely, 
she  knew  England  was  an  island,  she  could  count 
— with  the  aid  of  her  fingers.  John  added  up  her 
housekeeping  books  for  her,  and  dived  into  the 
mystery  of  the  weekly  washing,  with  its  half- 
pennies and  ninepence  a-dozens,  and  other  such 
intricacies.  He  praised  her  frugalities,  and  thus 
made  her  ambitious  about  them;  he  laughed  at 
her  arithmetic,  but  liked  her  dependence  on  him. 


BACCARAT  15 

There  had  scarcely  been  a  shadow  between  them 
in  all  those  nine  years.  Her  gaiety  and  irrespon- 
sible chatter  were  a  constant  wonder  to  John,  who 
was  so  differently  constituted. 

Julie  talked  French  sometimes  with  the  chil- 
dren, she  had  also  a  French  nurse  for  them ;  but 
still  they  did  not  acquire  much  facility  with  the 
language.  She  had  the  unstudied,  unconscious 
tact  of  a  gentle  heart.  She  knew  her  John  was 
wholly  English,  and,  in  striving  to  perfect  herself 
in  his  language,  to  make  it  hers,  she  was  apt  to 
forget  she  should  talk  French  in  the  nursery  or 
the  school-room. 

"  That  is  why  we  must  take  them  abroad.  I 
forget;  I  sing,  I  talk,  to  them  in  English." 

"  And  do  you  think  it  matters  ?" 

"  But  Jack  must  go  to  school  next  year,  and  it 
will  make  him  more  forward  in  his  class.  And  I 
have  the  nostalgia,  moi " 

She  made  a  little  moue,  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  heart,  and  John  laughed,  and  the  matter  was 
practically  decided.  When  August  came,  instead 
of  Broadstairs  or  Margate,  Birchington  of  the 


16  BACCARAT 

Bungalows,  or  Westgate  of  the  seaweed  smell, 
they  were  to  go  abroad. 

But  first,  there  were  endless  important  matters 
to  be  decided;  the  house  was  to  be  renewed  in 
their  absence,  new  paper  and  white  paint  were  to 
be  employed  in  its  beautification.  Julie  took  a 
whole  week,  and  at  least  ten  journeys  to  the  va- 
rious shops,  to  select  her  chintz  covers  for  the 
drawing-room.  John  would  buy  engravings  for 
the  dining-room  walls,  and  oilcloth  for  the  hall. 
The  necessity  for  strict  economy  was  over;  but, 
it  had  made  its  impress.  And,  of  course,  it  had 
been  the  education  of  a  lifetime  with  Julie. 

All  the  time  they  were  planning  for  the  house 
they  were  discussing  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the 
various  French  watering-places.  Their  friends 
were  called  into  council;  throughout  June  and 
part  of  July,  Julie  could  talk  of  nothing  but  where 
they  should  go.  Boulogne  and  Dieppe,  Wimer- 
eux,  and  Paris  Plage  were  among  the  first  to  be 
rejected.  They  were  too  much  frequented  by 
English  people.  Jack  and  the  petite  Eugenie 
would  hear  only  English. 


BACCARAT  17 

Why  they  should  have  selected  Dives-Cabourg, 
nobody  ever  knew,  least  of  all  Julie  and  John. 
It  was  one  of  those  accidents,  eventful,  inex- 
plicable, that  are  nevertheless  of  daily  occurrence. 
Trouville  had  been  negatived  on  account  of  its 
expense;  Dinard,  because  it  was  too  aristocratic; 
Etretat  had  a  stony  beach ;  at  Parame  the  bathing 
was  dangerous.  Who  first  mentioned  Cabourg, 
John  always  forgot.  But  after  the  name  had  be- 
come familiar,  first  this  one,  and  then  the  other, 
remembered,  or  had  heard,  that  the  bathing  was 
exquisite  and  wonderful,  the  hotel  comfortable, 
and  not  too  dear.  Cabourg  was  near  enough  to 
Trouville  for  gaiety,  far  enough  from  it  for  quiet. 
The  journey  was  a  little  too  complicated  to  tempt 
English  people  with  their  families,  not  sufficiently 
so,  apparently,  to  make  it  prohibitive  to  the  Court- 
neys. 

John  wrote  for  the  tariff  to  the  Grand  Hotel  de 
Cabourg.  Generally,  they  had  taken  apartments 
when  they  went  away.  Once,  indeed,  they  had 
gone  to  a  boarding-house,  but  this  was  in  their 
very  early  days,  when  three  guineas  and  a-half  a 

2 


18  BACCARAT 

week,  with  everything  found,  had  tempted  them 
to  discomfort.  But  to  an  hotel  they  had  never 
before  aspired.  Julie  went  blithely  about  the 
house  until  the  answer  came.  She  told  the  chil- 
dren wonderful  and  endless  stories  of  the  joys 
in  store  for  them;  she  was  much  more  excited 
than  they  were.  Already  she  was  devising  cos- 
tumes for  herself  and  for  Genie ;  her  only  lament 
or  trouble  was  that  Jack  must  perforce  be  undeco- 
rated ;  he  was  past  the  age  for  pretty  clothes,  he 
must  wear  knickerbockers,  and,  alas!  there  was 
no  place  for  embroidery  on  knickerbockers.  John 
suggested  that  she  might  "  do"  an  anchor  on  his 
sailor  collar,  and  so  that  grief,  too,  was  assuaged. 
John  always  found  a  way  out  for  her  when  she 
was  in  trouble. 

The  answer  came  in  due  course,  it  came  two 
whole  posts  before  she  would  have  despaired  of 
it  ever  coming  at  all.  Yes,  they  had  the  rooms — 
the  price  seemed  reasonable,  even  to  the  Court- 
neys.  Quand  Madame  arrivera-t-ellef 

There  was  enclosed  in  the  letter  a  book  with 
pictures  of  the  town,  with  a  list  of  unexampled 


BACCARAT  19 

gaieties,  from  competitions  in  sand  castles  to 
pigeon-shooting.  It  appeared  there  would  be 
dancing  for  the  children,  also  there  were  fancy 
dress  balls,  concerts,  and  musical  entertainments. 

"  But  of  course,  we  will  do  nothing  on  Sun- 
day; we  will  keep  your  Sunday  just  the  same," 
said  the  little  papist  demurely. 

"  Oh !  yes !  I  see  you  doing  it,  when  there  is 
any  fun  on." 

John  was  almost  as  pleased  as  Julie.  Not  be- 
cause he  felt  the  need  for  holiday,  or  the  nostalgia 
of  which  she  spoke,  but  because  her  pleasure  was 
infectious,  and  he  caught  it  easily. 

The  rooms  were  booked  for  the  2Qth  of  July. 
Julie's  new  dresses  were  all  put  briskly  in  hand. 
They  had  a  dressmaker  working  in  the  house  for 
a  whole  fortnight ;  Julie  helped,  so  it  was  possible 
John's  cuisine  suffered  a  little  during  these  four- 
teen days.  But  the  effect  of  every  dress  was  re- 
hearsed for  his  benefit,  and  he  found  them  all 
"  ripping,"  or  "  splendid,"  or  "  rather  smart," 
according  to  his  limited  vocabulary.  In  reality,  he 
thought  she  looked  beautiful,  whatever  she  wore. 


20  BACCARAT 

And  indeed  she  was  a  pretty  creature,  with  her 
brown  eyes  and  hair,  her  riant e  face,  and  soft 
skin.  English  fare  and  English  air  had  dowered 
her  with  a  rose-leaf  flush. 

White  drill  suits  for  Jack,  blue  serge,  brown 
serge,  and  white  muslins  for  Genie,  were  bought 
with  a  comparatively  lavish  hand.  To  hear  them 
all  talk !  They  were  like  three  children  together, 
and  Marie  was  no  better.  One  would  have 
thought  there  was  only  one  paradise,  and  that  was 
Dives-Cabourg ;  only  one  holiday,  and  that  was 
the  one  they  were  going  to  enjoy. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  final  step  was  to  book  two  sleeping  cabins 
for  the  steamer.  When  that  was  done,  there  were 
only  the  hours  to  be  counted,  the  days  to  be  ticked 
off.  Already  it  was  the  25th.  Two  days,  three 
days  more,  and  they  would  start. 

On  the  27th,  John  came  home  unusually  early. 
Julie,  sewing  at  the  window,  dropped  her  work 
and  rushed  to  meet  him.  His  steps  had  lagged  as 
he  walked  up  the  gravel  path.  Running  into  the 
hall,  to  relieve  him  of  hat  and  stick,  she  began  at 
once;  there  was  room  for  only  one  subject  at  a 
time  in  Julie's  mind. 

"  What  is  it?  you  have  heard  something,  I  can 
see  it  in  your  face.  Is  it  that  Cabourg  is  un- 
healthy for  the  children?  The  cabins,  they  have 
been  taken?  the  steamer,  she  will  not  go?  Oh! 
don't  keep  me  waiting ;  speak,  talk,  tell  me,  I  can- 
not bear  it  else." 

She  was  always  foreign  in  her  expressions,  in 

21 


22  BACCARAT 

her  caressing  ways,  in  her  impulsiveness  and  want 
of  calm.  John  liked  all  her  ways,  all  her  expres- 
sions, everything  she  said  and  did.  Perhaps  it 
was  this  rare  marital  attitude  of  his  that  had  made 
their  lives  so  happy  together. 

"  Cabourg  is  all  right,  and  nothing  has  hap- 
pened to  the  steamer  or  the  cabins.  But  Tom  Jar- 
vis  is  coming  home  on  the  Kariboo,  and  she  is  due 
in  Liverpool  on  the  ist." 

The  words  were  curt,  the  announcement  abrupt. 
But  he  had  hated  the  news,  and  the  possibility  of 
disappointment  for  her.  It  was,  however,  essen- 
tial that  he  should  be  at  hand  to  meet  his  first,  his 
best  client.  Julie  would  see  this  for  herself.  Tom 
Jarvis,  who  had  prospered  in  America  beyond  ex- 
pectation or  belief,  would  have  no  one  but  his  old 
school  friend  to  look  after  his  English  interests. 
John  Courtney  was  his  agent  and  representative; 
his  appointment  to  these  offices,  six  years  ago,  had 
marked  the  commencement  of  the  era  of  pros- 
perity in  Mayo  Road.  Now  Tom  was  coming 
over,  and  John  must  be  at  his  post  to  explain 
details,  deliver  up  documents,  and  take  fresh  in- 


BACCARAT  23 

structions.  It  was  "  hard  lines,"  perhaps,  that 
Tom  should  just  choose  this  week  for  his  arrival, 
but  it  wasn't  John's  way  to  grumble  over  the 
inevitable,  and  it  was  clear  he  must  not  be  away 
from  Southampton. 

"  Oh !  John,  do  not  say  we  cannot  go.  It  is  too 
sad,  it  cannot  be ;  I  have  so  well  arranged.  Oh ! 
John!  and  the  little  ones,  they  have  so  much 
looked  forward  to  it!" 

Of  course,  she  was  nothing  but  a  child  herself ; 
tears  were  near  the  surface  of  her  pretty  eyes,  and 
in  her  excited  voice  she  cried : 

"  You  cannot  say  we  shall  not  go.  Oh !  we 
must,  we  must;  it  would  be  too  bad,  it  is  im- 
possible, I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  Tush ;  don't  cry  out  before  you  are  hurt ;  I 
never  said  you  were  not  to  go,"  he  said  abruptly. 

She  followed  him  upstairs,  hung  about  him 
whilst  he  changed  his  clothes,  and  was  full  of  en- 
dearments and  fondlings.  These  never  palled 
upon  him ;  John  was  provincial  and  stiff,  and  un- 
demonstrative, and  Julie  was  everything  that  was 
different.  Perhaps  it  was  the  difference  between 


24  BACCARAT 

them  that  had  attracted  him,  and  still  held  him; 
but  everything  she  did  was  right  in  his  eyes,  and 
to  deny  her,  or  fail  to  indulge  her  whims  or 
wishes,  had  always  been  impossible  to  him.  And, 
in  justice  to  Julie,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
hitherto  they  had  generally  been  very  mild  little 
whims  and  wishes,  concerning  themselves  with 
new  lamp  shades,  or  a  crepe  de  Chine  shawl  with 
fringes,  a  fan,  style  Louis  XVI.,  or  such  feminine 
desires. 

Now  she  had  set  her  heart  on  the  Cabourg  trip, 
and  Tom  Jarvis  was  coming  over  from  America ! 

John  hated  to  see  Julie  cry,  or  to  have  to  dis- 
appoint her.  But  it  was  his  duty  to  be  at  his  place 
to  meet  Tom.  And,  when  he  saw  his  duty,  he  did 
it,  simply.  There  was  not  much  compromise 
about  John  Courtney;  right  was  right  with  him, 
and  wrong  was  wrong,  always.  He  wanted  to 
gratify  his  wife,  but  Tom  Jarvis  had  the  right  to 
his  representative's  attention  and  personal  service. 

"Jarvis  does  not  arrive  until  the  ist.  I  could 
run  over  with  you,  stay  a  couple  of  days  to  see 
that  you  were  comfortable,  and  be  back  in  time 


BACCARAT  25 

to  meet  him,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  when  he  had 
finished  his  dressing  to  the  sound  of  lament  and 
the  sight  of  tears,  and  the  heart,  that  was  so  much 
larger  and  so  much  tenderer  than  one  would  have 
suspected,  was  unable  to  bear  any  longer  the  spec- 
tacle of  her  grief,  without  an  attempt  at  so- 
lacing it. 

"  The  question  is,  do  you  think  you  will  be  all 
right  there,  without  me,  say  for  a  week,  or  per- 
haps two?  I  can't  get  through  my  business  with 
him  under  that  time ;  it  might  take  even  more." 

"  Without  you !"  she  echoed  in  dismay. 

"  You'll  have  the  children,  and  Marie." 

"But  when — how  long ?  Oh!  John,  it 

will  be  half  spoiled." 

"  I  could  run  over  with  you ;  he  won't  be  here 
until  the  ist."  He  was  still  undecided.  She  was 
all  smiles  again. 

"  Oh !  that  will  be  good.  You  will  come  over 
with  us — you  will  come  back  to  us;  it  will  be 
only  for  a  few  days  you  will  leave  us.  Oh !  John, 
how  good  you  are.  I  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  we  should  not  go;  my  things  are  all  ready. 


26  BACCARAT 

Jane  is  to  have  her  holiday,  everything  was  so 
well  arranged." 

"  I  don't  know  about  a  few  days — but  I  should 
think  there  is  no  doubt  I  should  be  free  to  fetch 
you  at  the  end  of  August,  or  the  beginning  of 
September.  What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

What  he  had  expected  her  to  say,  perhaps,  was 
that  she  could  not  be  happy  without  him;  that 
they  had  never  been  separated,  and  she  did  not 
want  them  to  be  now,  and  that,  if  he  could  not 
stay  with  them,  she  would  wait  until  next  year  to 
perfect  Jack's  French.  But  what  she  did  say  was 
to  call  him  "  cheri,"  and  her  "  own  dear  John," 
and  to  protest  that  she  would  be  quite  happy  with 
the  children,  and  he  was  not  to  mind  about  them, 
and  it  was  good  and  sweet  and  adorable  of  him 
to  let  them  go,  and  she  longed  to  see  her  own  dear 
land  once  again.  The  dinner  was  interrupted  by 
her  caresses  and  exuberant  gratitude. 

Julie  Courvoisier  had  not  seen  her  terre  natale, 
since  she  left  the  convent,  where  she  had  been 
brought  up,  to  join  her  father,  when  he  lay  at 
the  point  of  death  at  Southampton. 


BACCARAT  27 

The  Baron  de  Courvoisier,  who  boasted  that  he 
was  an  Englishman  on  the  maternal  side  of  his 
family,  and  connected  with  the  Cavendishes,  and 
that  on  the  male  side  he  was  the  last  of  his  great 
race,  had  been  a  well-known  character  at  every 
gambling  centre  in  Europe.  John  had  met  him 
at  Boulogne  when  John  was  little  more  than  a 
boy,  and  had  been  impressed  at  once  by  his  mag- 
nificence and  by  his  condescension.  He  took  a 
great  fancy  to  John,  and  he  was  not  above  bor- 
rowing a  few  pounds  from  his  new  acquaintance, 
even  in  those  early  days.  But  he  was  an  aristo- 
cratic-looking gentleman  withal.  His  long  grey 
moustachios,  the  red  ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  his 
easy  loquacity,  impressed  the  young  provincial 
lawyer,  callow,  and  only  just  out  of  his  articles. 

So  long  as  the  Baron  de  Courvoisier  had  any- 
thing left  of  the  estate  he  had  inherited,  he  went 
with  his  wife  from  one  foreign  gambling  centre 
to  another.  That  was  his  occupation,  the  serious 
business  of  his  life!  The  Baron  and  Baroness 
corresponded  with  their  new  English  friend,  and 
when  he  appeared  in  his  holiday  times  at  Spa 


28  BACCARAT 

or  Monte  Carlo,  Ostend,  or  Biarritz,  they  were 
mutually  advantageous  to  each  other.  John 
would  always  lend  a  few  pounds,  although,  of 
course,  as  he  grew  older  he  understood  better 
the  people  with  whom  he  had  to  deal;  and,  of 
course,  the  Courvoisiers  helped  to  make  his  holi- 
days enjoyable  and  varied.  Madame  la  Baronne 
found  him  sympathique.  She  had  still  the  re- 
mains of  beauty,  the  gayest  spirit  in  good  for- 
tune, the  bravest  in  adversity.  John  admired  her 
always,  and  was  on  the  brink  of  a  passion  for 
her,  when  she  was  nearing  the  fifties  and  he  still 
twenty-two.  But  he  recovered  himself  in  time, 
and  remained  her  admirer  only.  Once  he  went 
with  her  to  the  convent  school  at  Liege,  where 
her  daughter  was  being  educated,  but  on  this 
occasion  he  had  not  seen  Julie.  Only  he  heard 
endlessly  about  her,  and  was  shown  her  various 
photographs. 

The  Baron  talked  often,  somewhat  grandilo- 
quently, about  the  day  when  his  affairs  should 
be  put  in  order,  when  he  would  show  John  the 
papers  establishing  his  connection  with  the  great 


BACCARAT  29 

English  family  of  the  Cavendishes.  He  built 
word  castles  in  the  air.  His  daughter  spoke 
English  to  perfection,  one  day  she  would  stay  at 
Chatsworth,  the  Duchess  would  present  her  at 
Court;  they  were  cousins,  of  course  John  knew 
that?  He  traced  the  connection  and  dwelt  upon 
the  ramifications  of  the  family  tree.  But  in  truth 
the  end  of  most  conversations  between  John  and 
the  Baron  de  Courvoisier  was  the  request  for  a 
leger  emprunt. 

John  had  known  them  four  or  five  years,  in  this 
desultory  holiday-resort  way,  before  the  Baroness 
died,  and  the  Baron  succeeded  in  leaving  at  the 
tables  the  last  remains  of  his  fortune.  He  came 
to  Southampton  only  to  die;  and  it  was  John 
who  saw  that  he  wanted  for  nothing.  The  excuse 
that  brought  him  was  the  claim  to  a  share  in  the 
estate  of  the  late  Sir  William  Cavendish.  Very 
soon  John  discovered  that  the  Cavendish  and 
Courvoisier  connection  had  no  marriage  certifi- 
cate attached  to  it.  But  he  did  not  tell  the  old 
man  what  he  knew. 

The  Baron  had  not  long  to  live ;  he  telegraphed 


30  BACCARAT 

for  his  daughter  to  come  to  him,  'and  awaited  the 
event. 

John  had  nearly  had  a  grand  passion  for  the 
mother,  who  was  almost  in  the  fifties.  What 
effect  would  Julie  produce  upon  him,  with  her 
marked  brows  and  dancing  eyes,  her  scarlet  lips 
and  the  dimples  that  played  around  them,  her 
demureness  and  pretty  piquancy,  the  coquetry,  so 
arch  and  childlike  and  obvious,  that  began  to 
show  itself  so  soon  after  she  had  recovered  from 
the  shock  of  the  bad  news  with  which  she  had 
been  met. 

It  was  within  a  few  short  weeks  of  her  father's 
death,  encouraged  perhaps  by  this  same  coquetry, 
moved  more  certainly  by  the  knowledge  that  she 
had  no  friend  in  the  world  but  himself,  that  John 
somewhat  haltingly  and  stiffly  asked  the  young 
girl  if  she  could  make  up  her  mind  to  marry  him. 

Before  he  had  got  out  his  proposal,  before  he 
had  finished  speaking,  she  was  laughing  and  sob- 
bing in  his  arms. 

She  had  been  so  triste  sometimes,  and  knew 
not  what  she  should  do!  The  Sister  who  had 


BACCARAT  31 

come  over  with  her  had  said  she  must  go  back 
to  the  convent,  and  be  a  servant  to  them,  or,  at 
best,  she  might  teach  the  little  ones,  for  she  had 
neither  money  nor  home.  She  did  not  want  to 
go  back  to  the  convent;  she  would  like  to  stay 
here,  and  marry  herself  with  him.  She  would 
love  him,  and  be,  oh!  so  good,  and  no  trouble. 
For  she  was  lonely,  and  if  he  had  not  asked  her 
to  marry  him  she  must  have  gone  back  to  the 
convent,  perhaps  to  be  a  nun,  she  who  was  so 
young  and  wanted  to  be  free.  Oh !  he  was  good 
to  keep  her  here. 

The  love,  which  was  latent  and  awkward  and 
shy,  threw  down  great  roots  whilst  she  clung  to 
him  sobbing,  grateful  to  him  for  helping  her  out 
of  her  difficulties.  She  was  almost  a  child, 
younger  even  than  her  seventeen  years.  John 
made  no  vows.  But,  as  he  held  her  slender  figure 
in  his  arms,  as,  shyly,  reverentially  almost,  his 
lips  touched  her  hair,  he  knew  his  life  was  hers 
henceforth.  His  soul  was  great  enough  for  love, 
and  Julie  flooded  it. 

The  love  had  not  grown  less  with  years.    There 


32  BACCARAT 

was  much  of  the  perpetual  child  about  Julie, 
although  she  had  developed,  under  Aunt  Sophia's 
tuition,  such  surprising  housewifely  qualities. 
Her  deftness  in  needlework  was  an  inheritance 
from  her  mother ;  her  thrift,  and  love  of  neatness 
and  order,  were  from  her  convent  education. 
Her  gaiety  never  failed  her,  nor  her  lightness  of 
spirit,  and  if,  as  his  friends  said,  John  spoiled  her, 
he  had  this  excuse,  that  he  owed  to  her  an  ideal 
home,  wherein  children  played  and  prattled,  and 
the  mother  laughed  and  sang,  and  all  was  sweet 
and  orderly,  with  love  enough  to  smooth  over 
inevitable  frets  or  small  petulances. 

They  had  small  means,  and  hired  furniture,  and 
the  responsibilities  and  anxieties  of  his  married 
life  turned  conscientious  John's  hair  grey  before 
he  was  thirty.  But  they  had  no  real  troubles  in 
their  married  life  until  the  much  talked  of  Ca- 
bourg  holiday  had  begun. 

The  bad  journey  with  which  it  started  was 
ominous.  Many  times  in  the  days  that  came  John 
thought  of  the  omen  of  that  stormy  crossing. 


CHAPTER    III 

THEY  started  on  the  very  day  that  they  had 
fixed.  John  found  he  could  take  them  over,  and 
even  remain  one  day  with  them  at  Cabourg.  But 
in  July  of  that  year  there  was  exceptionally  bad 
weather.  The  passage  from  Southampton  to 
Havre  was  both  rough  and  prolonged,  and,  al- 
though the  children  slept  peaceably  through  wind 
and  storm,  Julie  proved  the  worst  of  travellers, 
sick,  nervous,  and  easily  exhausted.  John  spent 
the  night  in  nursing  her  and  scolding  her  alter- 
nately, trying  to  chaff  her  out  of  her  fears,  then 
soothing  them,  rather  distracted  by  his  position 
than  irritated.  He  had  never  known  the  mean- 
ing of  either  nerves  or  sea-sickness,  being  used 
to  the  sea  from  childhood,  and  essentially  phleg- 
matic and  unimaginative.  But  already  he  wished 
he  had  not  yielded  to  her  desire  to  come  abroad. 
It  was  going  to  be  a  failure,  this  French  holiday, 
he  felt  already.  When  they  arrived  at  Havre, 

3  83 


34  BACCARAT 

Julie  was  too  ill  to  continue  the  voyage.  A 
few  hours  later,  when  she  had  recovered,  the 
storm  had  not  abated,  and  the  harbour  authorities 
would  not  allow  the  boat  for  Trouville  to  start. 
So  they  slept  that  night,  knowing  no  better,  at  the 
miserable,  dirty  Hotel  de  la  Plage.  And  thus 
John  lost  the  opportunity  of  remaining  one  day 
with  them  at  Cabourg.  He  made  light  of  it,  of 
course,  but  it  did  not  prove  a  trivial  matter. 

The  short  journey  from  Havre  to  Trouville,  in 
the  wretched  unseaworthy  boat,  again  tried  Julie's 
fortitude  severely ;  and  this  time  even  the  children 
suffered. 

"  You'll  have  to  come  back  via  Paris,"  said 
John,  to  raise  their  spirits.  Yet  no  one  had  ever 
suspected  him  of  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

But  Trouville  was  reached  at  last,  and  John 
relieved  the  tedium  of  the  hour  and  a  half  wait, 
preliminary  to  the  final  hour  in  the  train,  by  giving 
them  a  French  dejeuner.  Before  it  was  over  Julie 
had  almost  recovered  her  gaiety.  She  uttered 
whimsical  reproaches  against  herself  for  having 
been  ill;  she  told  Jack  that  she  should  change 


BACCARAT  35 

clothes  with  him  and  become  a  sailor,  for,  evi- 
dently, that  was  the  career  for  which  she  was 
fitted.  She  broke  into  French,  and  when  the  chil- 
dren ate  on  stolidly,  not  being  able  to  follow  her, 
she  used  it  as  an  argument  to  prove  to  John  that 
the  sacrifice  of  that  voyage  horrible  was  necessary 
for  their  education. 

They  had  a  railway  carriage  to  themselves. 
Julie  had  forgotten  the  French  trains  were  so 
high !  John  must  help  her  up  the  step.  She  was 
pleased  with  the  grey  cushions,  and  the  white 
antimacassars,  of  thread  lace,  with  everything. 

The  train  that  took  them  along  the  Normandy 
coast  wound  slowly  through  woods  and  valleys, 
then  climbed  the  steep  gradient  of  green-clad  hills. 
Between  these  they  saw  their  enemy  the  sea, 
turned  to  grey  grandeur  and  illimitable  distance. 
Presently  they  stopped  at  Villers,  the  first  of  the 
towns  with  their  feet  in  the  sea,  and  their  heads 
in  the  greenery,  that  divide  the  coast  between 
them.  Then  came  Houlgate.  Julie,  the  children, 
even  John,  wished  it  had  been  Houlgate  they  had 
selected,  so  beautiful  and  peaceful  it  looked  as  it 


36  BACCARAT 

slumbered  on  the  sands  amidst  its  trees.  But  the 
very  next  station  was  Cabourg!  They  had  little 
time  to  regret  Houlgate,  for  here  they  were  at 
their  destination,  and  now  the  excitement  would 
begin. 

There  was  little  green  at  Cabourg.  Their  faces 
fell,  as  they  read  the  name,  as  they  realised  that, 
for  the  first  time  since  they  had  left  Trouville, 
there  was  no  scenery,  there  were  no  verdure-clad 
hills,  all  was  flat,  and  bare,  and  unlovely. 

The  disillusionment  of  Cabourg  lasted  through- 
out John's  short  stay.  Cabourg  was  just  a  circu- 
lar row  of  houses  and  hotels,  an  esplanade,  the 
sea.  There  was  nothing  about  it  to  excite,  or 
hold,  the  imagination.  In  truth,  there  seemed  no 
breadth  nor  depth  in  it  for  the  tragedy  that  fol- 
lowed. Behind  the  circular  sweep  of  buildings 
lay  only  a  mean  village,  and  then  the  station,  amid 
flat  building  land,  with  boards  announcing  they 
were  a  loner.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  dull 
and  unattractive. 

But,  now  they  were  here,  Julie  would  not  let 
John  see  her  disappointment.  She  told  him  she 


BACCARAT  37 

was  sure  they  would  be  very  happy,  the  sands 
were  magnificent,  broad,  yellow,  and  sunny.  She 
liked  her  rooms,  her  bedroom  that  overlooked  the 
sea,  and  the  children's  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
corridor,  that  gave  on  to  the  garden  and  tennis 
court  of  the  hotel.  She  did  not  want  John  to  go 
away  and  think  they  would  not  enjoy  this  holiday, 
which  they  had  planned  with  such  anticipation, 
which  would  cost  them  so  much  more  money 
than  their  English  holidays.  So  she  found  the 
air  good,  and  the  food  good,  and  the  beds  good ; 
all  to  please  John. 

And,  gradually,  under  the  influence  of  her 
determined  optimism,  the  children  began  to  run 
about  wildly,  and  to  picture  unheard-of  pleasure, 
and  John,  reassured,  set  about  doing  what  he 
could,  in  the  short  time  before  him,  to  ensure 
her  the  attentions  of  the  manager  and  the  staff, 
to  secure  her  a  table  by  the  window  for  her 
meals,  to  get  an  abonnement  for  her  and  the 
children  for  the  Casino,  even  to  go  down  to  the 
Etablissement  de  bains,  and  buy  two  dozen  bath- 
ing tickets  for  them. 


38  BACCARAT 

"  Good-bye,  my  little  John,  you  have  been  good, 
you  have  been  sweet,  you  will  come  back  to  us 
so  soon  that  Mr.  Jarvis  leaves,  that  horrid  Mr. 
Jarvis!"  She  pouted  at  his  name. 

"  Well,  have  a  good  time  and  take  care  of  your- 
self and  the  children.  Now  good-bye  to  you  all 
and — and  God  bless  you,  my  dear." 

John  was  not  demonstrative,  but  he  took  a  last 
embrace  of  his  wife  with  rather  more  feeling  than 
was  common  to  him  in  public.  It  was  the  first 
time  they  had  been  separated.  There  was  no  one 
that  knew  him  at  Cabourg  station,  and  he  kept 
his  head  out  of  the  carriage  window  as  long  as 
the  white  figure,  and  the  handkerchief  she  waved 
in  farewell  to  him,  were  in  sight. 

Already,  walking  back  from  the  station,  she 
missed  him.  Her  heart  sank  at  the  prospect  of 
the  weeks  before  her,  in  this  dull  ugly  town.  She 
had  hardly  realised,  when  she  had  clapped  her 
hands  and  capered  and  revelled  in  the  prospect 
of  her  novel  jaunt,  that  she  would  have  no  one  to 
talk  to  but  Marie  and  the  children,  that  John 
would  not  be  there. 


Julie  sat  on  the  sands  with  the  children. 


•ft 

; 


BACCARAT  39 

She  had  leaned  on  him  during  all  the  short 
years  of  their  married  life,  as  before  she  had 
leaned  on  the  teachers,  or  the  head  of  the  class, 
or  the  Mother  Superior,  or  anybody.  She  had 
not  learnt  to  stand  alone.  Notwithstanding  her 
twenty-eight  years  she  had  not  yet  learnt  inde- 
pendence. 

Now,  this  strange  holiday  began  by  her  dining, 
alone,  at  that  table  by  the  window  which  John  had 
secured,  by  her  wandering  into  the  spare  empty 
drawing-room  to  look  at  the  papers,  alone,  by  her 
venturing  alone  into  the  gaily  lighted  Casino,  and 
coming  out  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes,  because  she 
was  suddenly  shy  or  ashamed,  or  frightened  at 
her  solitude  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd.  She  was 
glad  of  Marie's  company,  as  she  undressed  and 
went  to  bed  at  9.30! 

It  was  not  so  bad  in  the  morning.  Julie  sat  on 
the  sands  with  the  children,  and  watched  them 
build  their  castles.  She  was  a  good  swimmer, 
and  went  i:.to  the  sea  afterwards.  She  had 
dejeuner,  and  rested  when  Cabourg  rested.  But 
there  was  n:>  John  to  whose  home-coming  she 


40  BACCARAT 

could  look  forward.  The  solitary  dinner  and  the 
long  hours  of  the  evening  began  to  depress  her. 
So  passed  the  first  two  or  three  days. 

The  Grand  Hotel  de  Cabourg,  the  Casino,  and 
many  of  the  villas  and  dependencies  belonged  to 
two  brothers,  the  Messieurs  Bertrand.  One  of 
them  was  Mayor  of  Cabourg. 

The  interests  of  the  brothers  and  of  the  town 
were  identical.  That  people  should  come,  should 
stay,  should  come  again  and  bring  their  friends, 
was  essential  to  the  growth  and  the  prosperity  of 
the  little  seaport.  But  hitherto  it  had  lacked  the 
English.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  Madame  Courtney 
went  back  and  reported  badly  of  her  holiday. 
Yet  it  was  easy  to  see  she  was  bored ;  the  cham- 
bermaid heard  it  through  her  bonne,  and  so  it 
filtered  through  to  them. 

It  certainly  seemed  a  pity  that  the  jo  lie  Anglaise 
s'ennuierait  ainsi.  But  the  other  visitors  at  the 
hotel  were  there  with  their  wives  and  families, 
or  with  their  lady  friends,  and  Madame  was 
alone,  and  no  doubt  felt  isolated  in  the  midst  of 
the  gaieties.  For  Cabourg  was  gay,  there  was 


BACCARAT  41 

no  doubt  about  that ;  gaiety  was  the  end  to  which 
every  one  in  authority  worked  loyally.  There 
were  Chinese  lantern  fetes,  and  Batailles  de 
Fleurs,  there  were  fancy  dress  balls,  and  cotillons, 
there  were  Bats  d'Enfants,  and  Rally e-paper! 
Also  there  were  pigeon-shooting  and  horse-racing, 
and  always  the  vicinity  of  Trouville  and  Deau- 
ville,  with  the  Grand  Prix,  and  plenty  of  high 
play  at  the  various  neighbouring  casinos. 

That  evening  Monsieur  Bertrand,  the  one  who 
was  Mayor  of  Cabourg,  and  a  personage  in  his 
way,  spoke  to  Julie  as  she  was  hesitating  between 
a  solitary  walk  and  looking  on  for  half  an  hour 
at  the  petit s  chevaux  in  the  Casino.  He  said 
"  Bonsoir"  to  her  as  she  stood  in  the  hall,  and  he 
asked  her  if  she  was  going  to  the  dance  to-night, 
if  she  liked  Cabourg,  and  amused  herself  here. 
She  had  already  wondered  who  he  was,  this  stout 
and  prominent  Frenchman,  who  was  always  sur- 
rounded with  friends  and  acquaintances,  to  whom 
every  one  talked,  and  who  appeared  so  popular. 
She  was  delighted  to  be  addressed  by  him,  she 
smiled  and  dimpled  at  him,  charming  him  with 


42  BACCARAT 

her  friendliness  and  pretty  gestures,  and  exagger- 
ated sadness.  She  was  dull,  she  was  unhappy, 
she  had  left  so  good  a  husband,  and  now  she  was 
all  so  alone,  and  nobody  did  talk  to  her,  and  she 
loved  to  talk;  that  was  what  she  told  him. 

"  But  how  well  Madame  speaks  French,"  he 
exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

"Mais,  je  suis  Francaise!  Monsieur,  j'avais 
une  quinzaine  d'annees  avant  que  je  visse  I'Angle- 
terre,"  she  exclaimed.  Finally,  Monsieur  Ber- 
trand  heard  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  Jules 
Courvoisier ! 

Monsieur  Bertrand,  who  had  a  share  in  the 
Etablissement  at  Aix  les  Bains,  as  well  as  the 
Casino  at  Cabourg,  remembered  perfectly  Mon- 
sieur le  Baron,  her  father.  He  even  recalled 
having  seen  him  once  in  Spa  with  his  petite 
fille.  And  so  the  petite  fille  had  grown  up,  and 
had  married  an  Englishman!  Etonnant!  it 
seemed  like  yesterday  that  he  had  seen  them. 

There  was  a  lady  at  Cabourg  with  Monsieur 
Bertrand ;  he  presented  her  to  Julie,  and  Madame, 
it  appeared,  also  remembered  cet  elegant  Mon- 


BACCARAT  43 

sieur,  le  Baron  de  Courvoisier.  The  very  next 
afternoon  Julie  drove  with  them  in  their  automo- 
bile to  the  Deauville  races,  and  felt  she  was  at  last 
beginning  to  enjoy  herself.  Her  natural  gaiety 
bubbled  up  again  quickly  with  her  new  friends. 
The  Bertrands  said  that  it  was  absurd  that  Julie 
should  be  bored  at  Cabourg,  it  was  the  very  place 
for  her! 

The  Baron  d'Avril  joined  them  at  the  races;  he 
was  presented  to  Julie,  and  he  too  found  her  quite 
agreeable.  He  had  his  own  automobile,  and  he 
begged  that  she  would  drive  back  with  him,  in- 
stead of  making  a  third  with  the  Bertrands.  But 
an  automobile  is  not  very  conducive  to  conversa- 
tion, and  their  acquaintance  made  little  progress 
during  the  drive.  Later  on,  after  dinner,  they  met 
again. 

Naturally  he  stopped  to  talk  once  more  to  cette 
charmante  petite  femme,  who,  as  Bertrand  had 
told  him,  was  a  daughter  of  ce  vieux  beau,  Le 
Baron  de  Courvoisler,  whom  he  remembered  ten 
years  ago  at  Monte  Carlo  and  Ostend.  She  was 
so  glad  of  companionship;  she  was  so  gay, 


44  BACCARAT 

and  friendly.  She  was  alone  .  .  .  The  Baron 
had  no  hesitation  presently  in  asking  her  to  go 
with  him  into  the  cercle.  He  had  come  to  Ca- 
bourg  to  play  baccarat.  For  the  rest — well,  the 
Baron  liked  a  pretty  woman  as  well  as  most  men ; 
but  he  was  a  heavy,  not  to  say  dull,  conversation- 
alist, and  it  was  early  in  the  evening.  They 
would  play  a  little  now. 

The  Salon  reserve  aux  lectures,  for  that  was 
what  was  inscribed  over  the  door,  seemed  a  dull- 
looking  place  to  Julie.  It  had  no  temptation,  no 
danger,  no  attraction  for  her.  No  one  was  talk- 
ing, a  few  people  sat  about  reading  and  writing, 
and  that  was  all. 

"What  for  you  bring  me  here?"  she  asked 
gaily.  "  It  is  dull,  triste,  the  air  is  bad,  close." 

They  had  strolled  past  the  petits  chevaux,  and 
the  unfriendly  French  mothers  with  their  needle- 
work and  closely  guarded  daughters. 

"  Ah !  but  we  must  pass  through  here  to  get  to 
the  cercle,"  he  said,  "  the  other  way  is  longer." 

It  seems  incredible,  but  she  did  not  realise 
whither  he  was  taking  her.  Baccarat  was  an  un- 


BACCARAT  45 

known  amusement  to  her.  "  Gambling"  was  a 
word  she  had  forgotten  or  had  never  heard.  The 
convent  had  shielded  her  youth,  her  mother  had 
concealed  from  her  the  knowledge  of  her  father's 
habits,  suffering  rather  the  pangs  of  her  starved 
maternity.  John  had  guarded  her  adolescence. 
Her  ignorance  was  complete. 

There  was  a  leather  double-door  at  one  end  of 
the  Salle  de  Lecture.  It  was  discreetly  shut  and 
guarded,  and  an  attendant,  seated  at  a  table,  acted 
Cerberus.  But  he  rose  deferentially  to  allow  the 
Baron  and  his  lady  to  pass. 

The  Baron  d'Avril  had  a  brown  moustache  and 
good-natured,  sleepy  blue  eyes.  He  was  inclined 
to  be  stout,  although  his  height  carried  it  off.  He 
wore  a  tiny  red  wheel  of  ribbon  in  his  button- 
hole, and  his  Baronne  was  tres  grande  dame,  ex- 
clusive, devote,  very  charitable.  They  were  a 
model  couple,  but  the  Baron  travelled  much — for 
his  health. 

At  Pau,  and  at  Aix,  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  at 
Trouville  he  shot  pigeons,  and  played  trente 
et  quarante,  or  baccarat,  and  even  pokaire,  but 


46  BACCARAT 

always  with  discretion  and  the  preservation  of 
his  dignity. 

It  seemed  to  Julie  that  because  Monsieur  Bert- 
rand  had  known  her  father,  because  the  Baron 
d'Avril  had  also  known  him,  she  was  suddenly 
among  friends.  Julie  had  acquired  English  habits 
and  modes  of  thought.  The  Baron,  however, 
who  looked  at  her  readiness  to  accompany  him 
from  his  own  point  of  view,  was  incredulous  at 
hearing  that  the  daughter  of  Courvoisier  had 
never  even  seen  baccarat  played,  incredulous,  too, 
perhaps  of  her  innocence,  unworldliness,  of  all 
that  her  life  with  John  had  preserved  to  her. 

She  was  curious,  interested,  eager  as  a  child, 
when  she  had  entered  the  room,  and  saw  the  line 
of  men  and  women,  three  deep  round  each  of  the 
tables,  under  the  glare  of  the  lamps,  and  heard  the 
cry  of  the  croupiers: 

"  La  banque  est  aux  encheres,  qui  prend  la 
banquet*  Une  fois,  deux  fois,  cent  francs  a  la 
banque.  Messieurs,  faites  vos  jeux,"  and  was 
caught  in  the  toils  of  the  mysterious  fascination 
of  the  scene.  She  asked  eagerly  for  an  explana- 


BACCARAT  47 

tion  of  this  or  that,  question  after  childish  ques- 
tion came  volubly  from  her. 

"  Might  she  play  too  ?  Could  anybody  play  ? 
Would  Monsieur  arrange  it?  It  seemed  so 
amusing.  Dieu,  what  was  a  '  pass,'  and  why  had 
that  Monsieur  the  cards  again,  and  yet  again  ?" 

If  she  had  not  been  a  young  woman,  graceful, 
piquant,  pretty,  Monsieur  le  Baron  might  have 
been  too  busy  to  enlighten  her;  but,  as  it  was, 
he  told  her  everything  about  the  game,  and  inter- 
spersed his  explanations  with  compliments. 

The  gambling,  at  first,  was  of  a  comparatively 
mild  and  limited  order.  There  were  three  tables 
in  the  room,  and  at  the  one  where  she  stood  they 
were  playing  chemin  de  fer  with  five- franc  pieces. 
At  another,  small  banks  of  five,  ten,  or  fifteen 
louis  were  being  held  by  first  one  and  then  another 
of  the  guests.  But  the  centre  table  was  un- 
occupied. The  big  punters  had  not  yet  arrived. 
Monsieur  Bertrand  generally  appeared  at  such  a 
juncture,  playing  for  ten  minutes  or  so  with  a 
bank  of  twenty-five  louis,  making  himself  always 
agreeable,  and  retaining  his  popularity.  To- 


48  BACCARAT 

night,  however,  Monsieur  Bertrand  shook  his 
head  when  the  croupier  looked  his  way.  The 
rooms  were  very  full,  yet  it  seemed  there  was  no 
banker  for  the  middle  table,  and  there,  too,  they 
would  have  to  resort  to  chemin  de  fer. 

Then,  all  at  once,  there  was  a  little  bustle  or  stir 
in  the  room.  Julie,  who  was  standing  gazing 
about  her  with  those  dancing  brown  eyes  of 
hers,  noting  everything,  interested  in  everything, 
pleased  with  everything,  in  the  strange  new  scene, 
heard  a  quiet — 

"  Pardon,  Madame!' 

She  was  conscious  for  half  a  second  of  the 
regard  of  a  pair  of  keen  black  eyes,  as  some  one 
passed  quickly  behind  her,  and  made  a  low-voiced 
remark  in  the  ear  of  the  croupier.  The  croupier 
called  the  chef  de  parti.  It  was  evident  there  was 
something  in  the  wind. 

Monsieur  Diderot,  apparently,  was  new  to  the 
rooms.  The  keen  black  eyes  that  had  noted  Julie's 
charming  face  were  those  of  Monsieur  Diderot, 
with  his  carefully  waxed  moustache  and  black  im- 
perial, his  assured  manner. 


BACCARAT  49 

After  that  short  colloquy  between  the  croupier 
and  the  chef  de  parti — 

"  Cinquante  louis  en  banque,  Messieurs,"  was 
announced  in  a  loud  voice,  with  the  ordinary  jar- 
gon of  the  tables. 

When  every  one  possible  was  seated,  and  the 
rest  were  standing  behind,  and  obvious  interest 
was  centred,  it  was  explained  that  Monsieur 
Diderot  would  take  a  bank  of  a  thousand  francs, 
but  that  he  would  play  with  one  tableau  instead 
of  two,  a  new  variety  of  the  game  of  baccarat, 
and  that  the  minimum  stakes  were  to  be  one  louis. 
When  the  terms  were  agreed  to,  Monsieur  Di- 
derot took  his  place. 

Seats  had  been  found  for  Julie  and  the  Baron 
d'Avril,  and  now,  indeed,  she  began  to  find  her- 
self entangled  in  a  drama  of  supreme,  of  vital, 
interest. 

Under  the  direction  of  the  Baron  d'Avril  she 
changed  a  note  into  five  round  red  counters;  she 
was  taught  to  push  one  over  the  line.  And  in  the 
very  first  deal  she  became  the  proud  and  surprised 
possessor  of  two,  where  there  had  been  only  one 


50  BACCARAT 

red  counter.  Of  course,  she  did  not  quite  realise 
why  the  man  with  the  great  quaint  wooden  butter- 
knife  had  slapped  that  little  present  over  to  her, 
and  had  even  demurred  about  taking  it,  to  the 
infinite  amusement  of  one  or  two  of  the  players, 
and  of  the  Baron  d'Avril,  and  to  the  impatience 
of  the  croupier,  who  thought  she  was  protesting 
that  he  owed  her  more. 

Of  course,  it  was  not,  at  first,  the  actual  gam- 
bling itself  that  attracted  her.  Money  was  not 
very  important  to  her  except  for  its  purchasing 
power.  Money  was  John's  affair,  he  had  always 
given  her  what  she  asked,  praising  her  economies. 
But  she  liked  being  with  all  these  people,  one  with 
them,  doing  what  they  did.  She  had  been  so  dull 
and  alone  here  until  now. 

Every  one  was  in  good  humour  that  first 
evening,  for  the  bank  began  by  losing  all 
the  coups,  and  even  a  pass  of  three  had  not  yet 
occurred  in  its  favour.  It  was  like  an  animated 
private  party,  they  seemed  to  be  all  friends, 
and  she  amongst  them.  This  one  asked  her 
to  stake  for  him,  and  the  other  was  inter- 


BACCARAT  51 

ested  in  hearing  she  had  won — un,  deux,  cinq 
louis ! 

Presently  the  "  a  moi  la  main,"  or  "  a  vous  la 
main"  became  "  a  Madame  la  main,"  and  the 
butter-knife  handed  her  two  cards.  She  took 
them  up  rather  timidly,  hardly  knowing  what  she 
must  do  with  them.  It  was  the  Baron  who  looked 
over,  and  called  out  neuf,  excitedly,  and  told  her 
to  throw  them  face  upwards  on  the  table. 

After  that  it  began  to  come  easier  and  easier  to 
her.  She  was  so  pleased  at  giving  pleasure,  and 
the  cards  she  had  seemed  to  give  pleasure  to 
every  one.  She  looked  at  them,  and  there  was 
always  a  king,  or  a  queen,  and  an  eight  or  a  nine. 
She  understood  now,  and  excitedly  she  threw 
them  on  the  table,  and  cried  huit,  or  neuf,  as  the 
case  might  be,  and  saw  her  pile  of  louis  grow 
and  increase  quickly.  It  was  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world  to  win  money  at  baccarat.  And  the 
crowd  murmured  a  little  applause.  "  Madame  a 
de  la  chance,"  "  Madame  joue  bien" 

Presently  there  was  a  king  and  then  a  five,  and 
under  her  neighbor's  prompting,  Julie  cried,  in 


52  BACCARAT 

answer  to  the  banker's  mechanical,  "  J'en  donne," 
"  Carte." 

He  gave  her  a  four,  and  again  she  turned  up 
the  others  and  cried  neuf,  and  heard  with  exhila- 
ration the  laughing  applause  and  the  "  Bien  tire," 
"  Bon  tirage" — "  A  pass  of  eleven  against  the 
bank ! — incroyable!" 

It  was  very  different  from  last  night  and  the 
night  before,  when  she  had  been  so  homesick  and 
lonely. 

People  left  the  other  tables,  and  clustered 
around  where  Julie  sat.  She  felt  she  had  done 
something  very  clever  to  have  a  pass  of  eleven. 
She  laughed,  and  acknowledged  the  compliments, 
and  handled  the  big  pile  of  red  counters  always 
more  boldly. 

When  "Fin  de  la  faille"  was  announced,  and 
all  the  cards  were  shuffled  up  again,  it  was  already 
eleven  o'clock.  Marie  would  be  sitting  up  for 
her,  she  dared  not  stay  longer. 

But  she  had  enjoyed  the  evening;  there  is 
something  in  heredity,  perhaps.  Anyway,  the 
whole  atmosphere  had  been  congenial  to  her. 


BACCARAT  53 

Although  she  had  reluctantly  to  leave  the  table 
now,  she  promised  herself  she  would  come  back 
another  time. 

The  Baron,  first  carefully  protecting  his  seat, 
went  with  her  to  the  Caisse,  and  there,  in  ex- 
change for  her  counters,  they  gave  her,  not  only 
her  own  note,  but  five  others,  and  three  more  louis, 
and  she  was  altogether  exhilarated  and  excited 
by  her  good  fortune,  and  thought  she  had  some 
special  gift  or  talent  for  play,  and  that  soon,  very 
soon,  she  would  be  able  to  write  to  John  that  she 
had  won  enough  money  for  a  dot  for  little  Eu- 
genie, and  that  now  he  need  not  work  so  hard,  and 
could  be  more  at  home  with  her.  She  was  effer- 
vescent and  bubbling  with  her  success,  and  had 
none  of  the  decorum  of  the  experienced  player. 

The  Baron  d'Avril  found  her  very  charming,  if 
a  little  unusual.  He  could  not  understand  why 
she  should  retire  so  early;  but  the  way  she  re- 
sponded to  his  inquiry  hardly  made  it  clear  to 
him.  There  was  always  time,  of  course. 

For  it  seemed  to  him  he  was  en  veine  to-night ; 
that  the  bank  was  in  for  a  spell  of  ill-luck.  He 


54  BACCARAT 

did  not  want  to  miss  another  pass.  He  bowed 
over  her  hand  with  empressement,  when  she  bade 
him  good-night  and  thanked  him  for  bringing  her 
into  this  charmed  circle.  He  did  not  suggest, 
however,  accompanying  her  back  to  the  hotel,  he 
contented  himself  with  hoping  they  would  meet 
again  to-morrow.  He  was  a  joueur,  not  a  man  of 
gallantry,  ce  Monsieur  le  Baron  d'Avril,  except, 
perhaps,  incidentally. 

It  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
the  table  broke  up.  The  Baron  d'Avril,  and  in- 
deed the  majority  of  the  players,  had  won  largely. 
Baccarat,  with  one  tableau,  came  immediately  into 
favour.  There  was  much  discussion  about  it,  and 
Monsieur  Diderot,  who  had  held  the  bank  all  the 
evening,  and  had  lost  about  eight  thousand  francs, 
was  almost  a  popular  hero.  He  took  his  sudden 
popularity,  as  he  had  taken  his  losses,  with 
indifference,  insouciance.  He  explained  to  one 
or  two  who  spoke  to  him  that  he  had  seen 
baccarat  played  with  one  tableau  at  Wimereux, 
and  that  he  himself  thought  it  was  a  fairer 
game  for  the  punters,  and  that  it  made  the 


BACCARAT  55 

chances  more  even.  For  himself,  he  liked  an 
even  chance. 

It  was  difficult  to  classify  Leon  Diderot. 
Whilst  some  were  inclined  to  think  he  was  a  gen- 
tleman, gambling  for  pleasure,  it  filtered  through 
the  room  that  he  was  a  professional,  and  that  he 
held  the  bank  on  behalf  of  an  association,  who 
found  the  capital.  When  he  had  answered  a  few 
more  questions,  almost  monosyllabically,  he 
slipped  away  with  an  inclusive  "Bonne  nuitl" 
It  was  then  that  the  argument  about  him  and  his 
"  one  tableau"  reached  its  height. 

The  Baron  d'Avril  did  not  join  in  the  personal 
discussion.  It  was  self-evident  to  him  that,  whether 
private  or  professional,  whether  he  had  been  play- 
ing for  amusement  or  gain,  Monsieur  Diderot 
was  bourgeois,  uninteresting.  But  the,  at  present, 
unlegalised,  new  way  of  playing  baccarat  was 
profoundly  interesting.  The  Baron  made  calcu- 
lations and  compared  them,  and  did  not  go  to 
bed  till  past  four,  having  completely  forgotten 
Julie  Courtney,  and  what  he  was  pleased  to  con- 
sider his  "  succes"  with  her. 


56  BACCARAT 

Perhaps  he  would  have  remembered  it  in  the 
morning;  but  in  the  morning,  as  it  happened, 
he  received  a  petit  bleu  from  the  Baronne.  She 
had  selected  the  very  next  day  for  her  arrival 
at  Villers.  She  wished  her  husband  to  join  her 
there,  and  to  carry  out  certain  domestic  instruc- 
tions that  she  gave  him.  Of  course  he  must  obey 
the  summons,  Madame  la  Baronne's  orders  were 
always  carried  out.  If  the  Baron  did  not  leave 
Cabourg  with  alacrity,  at  least  he  left  it  with  for- 
titude, with  a  nonchalant,  wholly  French,  shrug 
of  the  shoulders,  and  a  characteristic  acceptance 
of  destiny. 

Villers  is  only  an  hour's  run  from  Cabourg. 
He  calculated  he  could  return  by  the  end  of  the 
week.  In  the  meantime  it  was  satisfactory  to  be 
taking  with  him  nearly  two  thousand  francs !  If 
he  had  remembered  Julie  Courtney  at  all  in  the 
morning,  it  was  not  to  an  extent  that  disturbed 
him  in  the  performance  of  his  duty  to  Madame 
la  Baronne. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  day  after  her  first  introduction  to  the  cer- 
cle,  Julie  found  herself  rather  bored,  and  even  less 
inclined  than  before  to  enjoy  her  own  company. 
She  wandered  about  disconsolately  in  the  early 
morning.  She  saw  the  Bertrands  depart  on 
their  motor  for  Caen,  where  they  were  to  spend 
the  day.  Monsieur  Bertrand  had  introduced 
Julie  to  the  Baron  d'Avril,  he  had  recognised  that 
the  Baron  had  given  her  the  freedom  of  the  cer- 
cle.  It  did  not  seem  to  him,  or  to  his  companion, 
that  there  was  more  to  be  done  for  Julie.  They 
would  amuse  themselves,  they  would  both  enjoy 
Cabourg.  Presto!  the  thing  was  done.  Mon- 
sieur and  the  temporary  Madame  Bertrand  could 
now  devote  themselves  to  each  other  with  an  easy 
mind. 

But  the  Baron  had  been  summoned  to  Villers; 
that  they  could  not  know. 

The  monotony  of  the  hot  sandy  plage,  the  sight 

57 


58  BACCARAT 

of  the  white-capped  bonnes,  with  their  wizened, 
dark-skinned  French  babies,  the  rattle  with  which 
the  sweatmeat  sellers  announced  their  approach, 
the  babel  of  mothers  and  children,  were  not  calm- 
ing to  the  nerves  that  had  been  unstrung  by  the 
excitement  of  the  previous  evening.  The  crawl- 
ing sea,  with  its  waveless,  slow-incoming  tide, 
was  untempting;  but  when  at  length  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  bathe,  when  she  found  her- 
self out  of  her  depth,  the  warm  salt  buoyancy 
soon  exhilarated  her.  She  swam  on,  and  on, 
until  she  had  forgotten  her  ennui,  her  rasped 
nerves,  the  monotonous  morning,  and  the  heat 
of  the  summer  noon. 

It  was  strange  that  when,  happy  and  cool  in 
her  clinging  bathing-dress,  she  emerged  from  the 
sea,  she  should  have  almost  run  into  the  arms  of 
Monsieur  Diderot,  the  banquier  whose  advent 
last  night  had  been  the  signal  for  her  exciting 
hour,  and  to  whom  she  owed  her  large  winnings, 
and  that  wonderful  series  of  cards. 

For  she  was  still  a  little  confused  as  to  the 
details  of  the  play.  She  only  knew  it  was  this 


He  had  an  eye,  this  Monsieur  Diderot,  and  her  contours  satisfied  it. 


BACCARAT  59 

Monsieur  who  had  given  her  the  eights  and  nines 
that  had  taken  all  the  money.  Of  course  she 
blushed  when  she  saw  him  standing  so  near  the 
encroaching  sea;  that  beautiful  wild-rose  flush 
she  owed  to  English  air.  Of  course  she  was  at 
once  conscious  of  her  bare  feet  and  of  her  clinging 
gown.  He  raised  his  hat  immediately,  for  the 
blush  did  not  escape  him.  He  did  not  recollect 
her,  but  it  was  evident  she  knew  him.  He  had 
an  eye,  this  Monsieur  Diderot,  and  her  contours 
satisfied  it.  They  were  all  slender  and  curved, 
and  exquisitely  moulded.  From  beneath  the 
close,  red  bathing  cap  escaped  black  tendrils  of 
hair,  which  meandered  over  a  white  forehead, 
above  brown,  bewitching  eyes.  The  mantling 
colour  in  her  cheeks  was  less  red  than  the  scarlet 
softness  of  her  lips.  She  could  not  but  smile  in 
answer  to  his  greeting,  and  it  seemed  long  until 
Marie  hurried  to  her  with  her  sortie  de  bain. 
The  piquant  face,  which  grew  red  and  then  pale 
again,  which  dimpled  as  it  smiled,  and  showed 
the  even  gleam  of  her  teeth,  was  set  on  a  slender 
pillar  of  white  neck.  Her  modesty,  feigned  or 


60  BACCARAT 

real,  was  exquisite.  Monsieur  Diderot  turned 
round  quite  deliberately  to  watch  her  graceful 
rush  to  her  bathing-machine.  Her  ankles  were 
thin;  her  limbs  the  perfection  of  form.  All  his 
senses  were  titillated  by  what  he  saw. 

He  relit  his  cigarette,  when  she  was  out  of 
sight,  with  the  expression  of  a  gourmet  whose 
palate  has  been  pleased.  It  was  only  his  second 
day  in  Cabourg,  but  he  began  to  think  it  was  well 
he  had  come.  He  waited  about  the  plage  and  the 
esplanade,  with  the  Petit  Journal  and  his  cigarette, 
comfortable  in  his  light  shirt  and  straw  hat,  not- 
withstanding the  heat,  until  he  saw  her  re-emerge 
from  her  dressing-room.  Her  hair  was  too  long 
to  dry  quickly;  the  long,  loose  knot  into  which 
she  had  twisted  it  showed  its  luxuriance.  She 
had  not  yet  put  on  her  hat,  for  the  children  were 
waiting  for  their  dejeuner;  the  pretty  tendrils 
waved  about  the  pretty  forehead.  She  blushed 
again  as  she  saw  him  waiting. 

Now  he  remembered  her.  It  was  she  who  had 
been  with  the  Baron  d'Avril  the  previous  night. 
But  the  Baron  d'Avril  had  left  Cabourg  that 


BACCARAT  61 

morning.  Leon  Diderot  could  make  no  mistake, 
therefore,  in  addressing  her.  But,  although  he 
turned  his  steps  so  that  he  met  her  face  to  face, 
he  had  no  opportunity  to  take  advantage  of  the 
timid  recognition  she  gave  him.  A  little  boy  and 
girl  rushed  up  to  her  with : 

"  Mother,  we're  waiting  lunch  for  you." 
"  Mother,  what  a  long  time  you  were  in  the 
water ;  we  thought  you  were  going  to  swim  back 
to  England."  She  smiled  and  answered  them 
caressingly,  and  with  one  on  either  side  she  passed 
into  the  hotel. 

It  was  later  in  the  day  when,  in  the  Casino, 
just  as  he  was  passing  through  into  the  rooms,  he 
saw  her  again.  She  was  watching  the  horses  go 
round,  and  leaning  over  to  place  a  coin  on  a 
number.  She  must  already  have  learned  some- 
thing of  the  pleasures  of  play.  And  this  after- 
noon, in  the  Casino,  many  of  the  players  of  last 
night  had  recognised  and  bowed  to  her;  she  no 
longer  felt  solitary  and  isolated.  She  looked  so 
charming  in  her  simple  white  frock,  with  the  red 
band  that  drew  attention  to  her  small  waist,  with 


62  BACCARAT 

the  wide  hat  that  made  her  face  small  and  child- 
like under  its  crown  of  red  cherries. 

"  Madame  is  superstitious  about  numbers  ?" 
Diderot  asked,  after  he  had  stood  beside  her  a 
moment  or  two,  noting  that  it  was  on  the  eight 
or  nine  she  staked  always  her  ten  centimes.  She 
turned  to  him  quite  frankly : 

"  Oh !  yes !  I  think  they  are  my  lucky  ones," 
she  said.  "  See,  eight  has  turned  up  twice  al- 
ready." 

She  was  not  startled  by  his  speaking  to  her; 
she  was  glad.  Last  night  it  seemed  every  one 
had  spoken  to  every  one  in  the  baccarat  room; 
and  this  Monsieur  Diderot  was  to  her,  at  least, 
the  hero  of  the  occasion.  She  was  glad,  almost 
proud,  that  he  spoke  to  her. 

"  Well,  I  will  follow  you." 

He  threw  down  a  franc  on  the  number  she  had 
chosen,  and  together  they  watched,  she  with  ex- 
citement, he  with  growing  admiration  of  her, 
whilst  the  painted  iron  horses,  with  their  jockeys, 
first  raced,  and  then  crawled,  and  finally  jerked 
their  way  round  the  machine. 


BACCARAT  63 

"  It  is — Yes !  I  am  sure — what  do  you  think 
of  it? — an  eight  again!  That  is  three  times! 
Oh !  we  have  won.  I  am  so  glad ;  I'm  so  glad 
you  followed  my  luck." 

She  was  really  charming  in  her  excitement, 
and  the  way  she  turned  to  him  for  sympathy. 
The  Belgian — Monsieur  Diderot  was  a  Belgian — 
said  to  himself  that  if  he  had  been  the  Baron 
d'Avril  he  would  not  have  left  Cabourg,  no,  not 
even  at  the  call  of  any  numbers  of  Madame  la 
Baronnes ! 

He  offered  Julie  his  stake.  He  said  it  really 
belonged  to  her,  he  had  only  put  it  on  for  her. 
But,  of  course,  she  replied  that  it  was  absurd. 
She  blushed  and  dimpled,  and  refused  with  ani- 
mation, and  a  little  gesticulation.  He  spoke  Eng- 
lish to  her;  he  was  proud  of  his  English,  and 
from  one  topic  they  passed  to  another,  moving 
gradually  away  from  the  tables,  as  he  persuaded 
her  it  was  unwise  to  tempt  fortune  for  yet  a 
fourth  time.  For  his  part,  he  thought  it  was 
the  turn  of  one  of  the  earlier  numbers.  When 
from  the  distance  they  heard  the  croupier  call 


64  BACCARAT 

"Deux,"  she  was  quite  astonished  at  his  clever- 
ness, and  wished  she  had  taken  advantage  of  it. 

"  Madame  had  great  good  fortune  also  at  bac- 
carat last  night?  It  is  surprising  Madame  is  so 
lucky  at  cards!" 

The  implication,  the  compliment,  escaped  her. 

"  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  played,"  she  an- 
swered a  little  shyly,  but  eagerly  too.  She  wanted 
to  talk  about  it.  Julie  always  wanted  to  talk. 

"  You  must  go  on !  That  is  the  way  to  play, 
always  go  on,  when  one  is  in  the  vein.  But  you 
must  not  break  the  bank !" 

He  smiled  at  her.  He  was  a  thin  man,  small, 
dark-skinned,  with  waxed  moustache,  and  a  little 
pointed  beard  between  his  under  lip  and  chin ;  the 
finger  and  thumb  of  his  right  hand  were  yellow, 
stained  from  the  cigarettes  he  rolled  up,  and 
smoked  constantly.  When  he  smiled,  she  saw 
his  teeth  were  stained  too,  not  white.  But  she 
wanted  so  much  to  talk! 

'  You  must  not  break  the  bank,"  he  said  again. 

"  Avez-vous  perdu?  I  am  sorry  you  lost,"  she 
answered  quickly,  in  her  impulsive  way.  "  I 


BACCARAT  65 

thought  it  was  so  good  of  you  to  sit  there  all  the 
time,  dealing  for  us.  It  must  have  made  you 
very  tired ;  I  am  sorry  if  you  lost,  too.  I  did  not 
know  if  that  was  all  your  money  that  the  croupier 
had  in  front  of  him.  I  wondered  why  you  said 
always  '  Payez.' ' 

She  looked  at  him  sympathetically,  with  soft 
eyes. 

"  Did  you  play  long  after  I  left?" 

She  was  glad  to  detain  him,  and  talk  about  bac- 
carat. 

"Yes!  Very  long;  they  did  not  want  me  to 
get  up.  I  played  until  three!" 

"  Ah ;  but  that  was  a  long  time.  And  you  lost 
all  the  time?" 

"  Yes,  all  the  time.  But  it  is  of  no  conse- 
quence." 

"  I  should  not  like  to  win  always." 

"  No  ?    But  Madame  will  always  be  winning !" 

Her  blushes  came  so  readily. 

"  But  it  must  make  one  feel  uncomfortable  to 
win  always!"  she  persisted.  She  ignored  the 
compliment. 


66  BACCARAT 

"  Vous  powvez  risquer  cela,  Madame,"  he  said 
again. 

He  held  the  leather  doors  open  for  her.  She 
had  not  meant  to  play  baccarat  again  this  after- 
noon. She  hung  back  a  little;  but,  as  he  waited 
expectantly,  she  passed  through  with  him,  for  it 
was  dull  alone. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  forgotten  how  to  play.  Yes- 
terday the  Baron  d'Avril  was  helping  me;  but 
to-day  I  have  not  seen  him,"  she  said,  perhaps  a 
trifle  coquettishly. 

"  You  have  known  Monsieur  le  Baron  a  long 
time?" 

Monsieur  Diderot  was  quite  anxious  for  the 
answer.  Julie  puzzled  him  a  little ;  she  presented 
a  type  that  was  new  to  him,  with  her  French 
piquancy,  her  English  shyness,  her  readiness  to 
talk,  her  unreadiness  at  compliments.  He  also 
knew  that  the  Baron  d'Avril  was  not  a  man  of 
gallantry;  it  was  part  of  Monsieur  Diderot's 
method  to  know  everything  about  the  frequenters 
of  gambling  rooms.  Julie  explained  immediately 
her  short  accidental  acquaintance  with  the  Baron, 


BACCARAT  67 

her  drive  with  the  Bertrands,  and  that  the  Bert- 
rands  had  known  her  father. 

Of  course  Monsieur  Diderot  had  also  known 
the  Baron.  He  was  quite  startled  to  hear  that 
this  was  his  daughter !  Of  all  the  people  who  had 
claimed  acquaintance  with  that  dead  gambler,  it 
was  indeed  Monsieur  Diderot  who  could  do  so 
with  most  truth.  All  through  the  last  days  of  her 
father's  fight  with  chance,  at  Boulogne,  and,  later 
on,  at  Aix,  Leon  Diderot  had  watched  him,  noted 
his  decadence,  been  responsible,  in  fact,  for  that 
very  incident,  now  recalled  perhaps  with  some 
compunction,  which  had  closed  both  Casinos  to 
the  Baron,  and  driven  the  poor  old  ruined  game- 
ster to  Southampton  and  the  good  offices  of  John 
Courtney. 

So  this  was  Jules  Courvoisier's  daughter!  To 
think  of  that  old  rastaquere  with  a  daughter  like 
this!  His  interest  in  her  was  accentuated,  not 
diminished  by  the  knowledge.  Dreams,  for  even 
Leon  Diderot  could  dream,  became  tangible  when 
he  looked  upon  the  daughter  of  the  Baron  de 
Courvoisier,  and  thought  of  that  salon,  or  club, 


68  BACCARAT 

which  he  would  open  one  day  in  Paris,  where  all 
the  joueurs  from  England  and  from  Italy,  as  well 
as  from  Belgium,  would  come  to  play.  A  central 
figure,  with  just  Julie's  grace  and  beauty  and 
bloom,  should  preside  over  the  establishment,  and 
add  her  attractions  to  that  of  the  green  cloth. 

Pouf !  and  the  dream  was  gone. 

They  were  in  the  cercle.  And  here  were  all  the 
faces  of  yesterday,  eager  for  his  coming,  tired  of 
the  small  banks,  the  petty  stakes,  the  tedious 
chemin  de  fer.  Quite  a  little  murmur  greeted  his 
appearance. 

"  They  want  to  play  high!  Hein!"  he  said  to 
Julie,  smiling  that  hard  smile  that  was  with  the 
lips  only.  "  And  you,  you  will  sit  by  my  side,  and 
bring  me  your  luck,  perhaps?" 

"  Oh !  oui,  je  I'espere.  You  must  not  lose 
again  to-day.  How  will  you  make  them  know 
that  you  will  do  what  they  want?" 

It  was  not  difficult.  The  croupier,  sitting  idly 
at  the  table,  waiting  to  see  if  they  would  have  a 
chemin  de  fer,  caught  Monsieur  Diderot's  eye. 
What  he  signalled,  or  said,  was  imperceptible  to 


BACCARAT  69 

Julie.  But  every  chair  seemed  to  fill  at  once,  and 
behind  every  chair  already  there  were  people. 

"  Dix  mille  francs  en  banque.  Une  fois,  deux 
fois,  la  banque  est  adjugee  a  dix  mille  francs!" 

Her  companion  had  taken  again  his  seat  of  last 
night,  but  he  did  not  forget  to  place  Julie  at  his 
side,  to  order  "  un  petit  bane  pour  Madame,"  to 
call  for  the  changeur,  and  see  that  she  had 
counters  with  which  to  stake.  Leon  Diderot 
could  play  two  games  at  once,  more,  if  necessary. 
As  for  Julie,  all  her  outlook  had  been  provincial- 
ised and  dulled  in  the  years  of  her  marriage,  but 
heredity  is  stronger  than  circumstance.  And  here 
soon,  extraordinarily  soon,  she  found  herself  at 
home. 

A  courtesan  at  the  back  of  her  began  to  play  a 
systeme;  a  man  at  the  other  side  explained  its 
simplicity  to  Julie. 

"  Puis-je  avoir  une  carte  semblablef"  she 
asked. 

"  Why,  certainly." 

He  was  a  nomad,  who  had  travelled  in  Amer- 
ica. He  asked  for  a  card  for  her,  spaced  it  out, 


70  BACCARAT 

and  lent  her  his  pencil.  It  was  even  more  inter- 
esting to  play  baccarat  when  one  had  a  pencil  and 
a  card,  and  made  dots,  now  in  twos  and  now  in 
threes,  and  drew  lines,  and  found  that  there  were 
times  when  you  must  push  double,  and  even  treble 
stakes  over  the  line,  times  when  you  must  not 
even  put  one.  But  at  those  times  she  would  put 
a  white  counter ;  for  it  seemed  a  pity  to  do  noth- 
ing. And  if  it  came  a  nine  or  an  eight  to  the 
table  when  she  had  put  on  that  unlicensed  white 
counter,  she  exclaimed  that  she  had  been  right. 
For  it  was  absurd  of  one  when  playing  baccarat 
not  to  stake  at  all  ! 

At  first  the  nomad  tried  argument;  but  in  the 
end  he  admired  her  complexion,  and  fathomed 
her  intelligence.  Then  he  played  his  own  game, 
and  let  her  play  hers  without  comment. 

Dives-Cabourg  is  not  like  Monte  Carlo,  or  even 
Ostend.  Everything  there  is  on  a  small,  a  lim- 
ited, scale.  The  players,  meeting  every  day,  twice 
a  day,  for  a  whole  month  (it  is  a  short-season 
place,  and  August  its  only  harvest),  are  as  a  little 
family  party.  Everybody  knows  everybody  and 


BACCARAT  71 

is  interested  in  the  others'  fortunes.  Julie  was 
pointed  out  as  the  lady  who  held  the  cards  last 
evening,  when  there  was  a  pass  of  eleven  against 
the  bank! 

When  the  croupier  shovelled  the  cards  over 
to  her  this  afternoon,  the  "  a  Madame  la  main" 
was  followed  by  every  one  increasing  his  or 
her  stake.  She  felt  quite  proud  when  she 
noticed  it,  and  was  anxious  to  justify  their 
faith  in  her,  for  their  sakes,  more  than  for 
her  own. 

At  first  she  was  again  fortunate.  But  the  big 
run  of  this  afternoon  was  against  the  punters. 
Julie,  with  her  newly  learned  system  to  guide  her, 
kept  on  doubling  and  re-doubling  her  stake.  At 
first,  too,  she  was  almost  pleased  when  "  ce  pauvre 
Monsieur  Diderot"  had  a  little  luck,  for  she  real- 
ised, now,  that  whatever  the  croupier  shovelled  in 
was  for  him.  But  "  a  la  banque,"  "  huit  a  la 
banque,"  "  neuf  a  la  banque/'  even  with  her  sym- 
pathy for  Monsieur  Diderot,  began  to  fall  on  her 
ears  with  an  unpleasant  sound,  as  her  first  five 
louis  were  swept  away,  and  then  another  five,  and 


72  BACCARAT 

very  quickly  all  that  she  had  gained  the  previous 
evening. 

When  she  had  nothing  left  in  her  purse,  she 
hesitated,  and  was  about  to  get  up.  But  Monsieur 
Diderot,  who  had  eyes  apparently  on  both  sides 
of  his  head,  paused  in  his  quiet  dealing  to  ask  her 
why  she  should  leave  so  soon?  When  she  ex- 
plained, somewhat  shyly,  that  she  had  no  more 
money  with  her,  he  told  her  that  did  not  matter. 
He  begged  her  to  remain  where  she  was  until  the 
"  fin  de  la  taille"  She  was  glad  to  remain.  She 
thought  he  was  very  kind  to  regard  her. 

When  the  cards  were  being  reshuffled,  Diderot 
called  the  chef  des  jeux,  and  gave  him  a  word  of 
instruction.  Then  some  one  at  the  back  of  her 
asked  Julie,  in  her  ear,  how  much  he  should  bring 
her?  Shortly,  and  always  quietly,  Monsieur  Di- 
derot explained  to  her,  whilst  he  waited  for  the 
cards,  that  she  could  have  whatever  she  wanted 
from  the  Caisse.  She  could  pay  it  that  evening, 
or  to-morrow ;  it  was  wrong  to  leave  off  playing 
just  now,  without  giving  herself  a  chance  of  re- 
couping her  losses,  Monsieur  Diderot  said  to  her : 


BACCARAT  73 

"  You  will  win  it  all  back,  if  there  is  a  pass 
against  the  bank." 

And,  sure  enough,  the  bank  lost  steadily  for 
five  successive  deals. 

When  they  left  off  that  afternoon  she  was  able 
to  reimburse  the  Caisse,  she  had  even  recovered 
something  of  her  earlier  losses. 

There  was  fine  soil  for  the  virus  of  gaming  in 
Julie's  veins,  although  it  was  not  all  at  once  that 
the  worst  of  the  fever  showed  itself.  She  would 
have  left  off  playing,  perhaps,  after  the  fright  she 
had  had  that  afternoon,  when  she  had  lost  all  she 
had  with  her,  and  had  been  induced  to  borrow 
from  the  Caisse.  She  told  Monsieur  Diderot,  as 
he  walked  back  with  her  to  the  hotel,  that  she 
should  play  no  more,  and  he  did  not  combat  her 
decision. 

After  dinner,  however,  he  met  her,  by  chance, 
on  her  way  to  her  own  room,  and  asked  her,  since 
she  had  decided  not  to  play  again  that  evening, 
whether  she  would  not  take  a  turn  with  him  on 
the  front  ?  It  had  been  a  hot  day,  but  now  the  air 
was  beautiful,  surely  it  was  too  early  for  her 


74  BACCARAT 

to  retire,  she  would  not  be  able  to  sleep.  She 
hesitated.  But  indeed,  it  would  be  absurd  to 
go  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when 
you  were  taking  a  holiday,  after  nine  years,  in 
your  own  country.  Monsieur  Diderot  had  been 
kind  to  her  this  afternoon,  and  it  was  through 
him  she  had  won  back  all  her  money.  He 
had  lost  his  own,  poor  man !  And  he,  too, 
was  alone  in  Cabourg;  he  told  her  so  when  she 
hesitated. 

She  bade  him  wait  whilst  she  fetched  a  wrap; 
it  is  possible  that  she  told  Marie  not  to  sit  up  for 
her,  as  she  could  not  be  sure  what  time  she  would 
come  in  from  her  walk!  She  was  quite  femi- 
ninely disingenuous  with  herself!  It  was  not 
that  Monsieur  Diderot  attracted  her,  but  the  ad- 
venture did.  She  ran  down  quite  quickly  to  join 
him. 

There  were  hundreds  of  people  walking,  up  and 
down,  in  front  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  hotels,  so 
many  that  they  jostled  against  Monsieur  Diderot 
and  Julie.  A  band  of  Neapolitan  singers  was 
entertaining  the  crowd,  and  making  the  throng 


BACCARAT  75 

so  great  in  just  that  one  place.  It  was  unpleasant 
to  be  so  surrounded. 

They  walked  on  a  little,  away  from  the  lights 
and  the  people,  to  where,  almost  alone,  they 
leaned  against  the  low  stone  parapet,  and  saw  the 
sea  and  wet  sand  glisten  in  the  moonlight. 
Vaguely  now  from  the  distance  the  soft  summer 
wind  wafted  to  them  the  dim  tinkle  of  the 
mandolines. 

Leon  Diderot  could  not  talk  sentiment,  perhaps 
if  he  had  talked  sentiment  she  would  have  thought 
of  her  John.  But  even  Diderot  could  feel  some- 
thing of  the  charm  of  their  comparative  isolation. 
He  had  not  had  many  tete-d-tetes  with  ladies. 
His  tepid  blood  warmed  a  little,  and,  character- 
istically, he  began  to  talk  of  baccarat.  He  told 
Julie  stories  of  banks  that  had  been  broken,  coups 
that  had  been  made,  extraordinary  runs  that  had 
occurred. 

The  moon  and  the  sea  and  wet  sands  attuned 
him  to  romance,  and  it  was  the  romance  of 
gaming  that  he  gave  her.  She  drank  it  in;  that 
little  fever,  already  begun,  was  acute  enough,  even 


76  BACCARAT 

now,  to  make  her  thirsty.  Why  should  it  not  be 
that  she  had  indeed  the  lucky  hand?  Her  father 
had  been  always  unfortunate,  Monsieur  Diderot 
had  told  her,  and  she  had  heard  that  too  from 
Monsieur  Bertrand  and  his  lady,  but  it  might  be 
that  she  would  win  back  all  he  had  lost.  John 
had  taken  her  without  dot.  But  her  dot  was  here, 
at  the  gaming  tables !  There  it  was  her  father  had 
left  it,  it  was  from  there  she  would  gain  it  back, 
for  John,  and  for  their  children. 

Something  of  this  she  conveyed  to  Leon 
Diderot;  not  much  about  John  or  the  children, 
but  about  her  feeling  that  she  would  gain  back 
all  her  father  had  lost.  He  said  it  was  possible, 
more  than  possible.  He  owned  he  had  thought 
it  a  great  pity  when  she  told  him  she  would  play 
no  more,  for  if  he  were  any  judge,  she  was 
just  one  of  the  few  who  had  a  natural  instinct 
for  it.  Of  course,  there  were  chances  for 
and  against  winning.  It  was  courage  that  was 
needed,  always  courage;  so  that  when  the 
moment  came,  the  inevitable  moment  of  luck, 
the  gambler  should  stake  everything,  without 


BACCARAT  77 

hesitation  or  fear,  seizing  with  both  hands  the 
golden  opportunity. 

It  appeared  to  Monsieur  Diderot  that  Julie  had 
just  the  sort  of  courage  needed. 

Much  more  of  the  same  kind  did  he  tell  Julie  as 
they  found  their  way  back  to  the  Casino,  much 
more  to  which  she  listened  with  deep  interest. 
It  was  all  so  new;  and  yet  it  seemed  all  so 
familiar. 

The  music  had  ceased,  the  crowd  on  the 
esplanade  had  dispersed.  Only  outside  the  doors 
of  the  cercle  stood  a  little  string  of  fiacres  and 
automobiles,  telling  that  the  gamblers  had  assem- 
bled, or  were  assembling,  waiting  for  the  levia- 
than who  would  make  a  large  bank  for  them. 
They  made  room  for  him  as,  with  Julie  still  by 
his  side,  he  passed  through  the  doors,  from  the 
quiet  of  the  moon  to  the  glare  of  the  lamps,  and 
the  heat,  and  the  green-marked  table. 

This  evening  again  the  bank  won;  but  Julie 
borrowed  from  the  Caisse  with  smaller  misgiving. 
Her  heart  fell  a  little  when  the  twenty-five  louis 
melted  away  so  quickly.  The  second  twenty-five, 


78  BACCARAT 

although  she  husbanded  them,  and  played  more 
carefully,  and  gradually  diminished  her  stakes, 
were  half  gone  before  the  play  ended.  Long 
before  that  moment  Julie  had  become  completely 
inoculated.  Not  even  her  father  could  have  been 
more  eager  than  she,  counting  and  staking,  and 
waiting  for  a  pass.  All  the  sparkling  of  her 
pretty  eyes,  all  the  smiling  of  her  pretty  mouth, 
even  the  dimples,  seemed  changed  and  hardened 
by  her  absorption.  Her  fluctuating  fortunes 
made  the  hours  short  in  that  crowded  room, 
which  was  close  and  hot  with  the  panting  breath 
of  greed,  its  air  was  infectious,  breathed  again 
and  again,  it  was  poisonous.  Julie  had  red  spots 
on  either  cheek,  the  small  hands  changed  their 
form,  now  they  only  knew  how  to  hold,  to  clutch, 
and  to  swoop.  The  hours  seemed  to  fly. 

It  was  past  two  when  she  got  to  bed  that  night, 
to  lie  awake  with  beating  heart  and  confused 
brain,  trying  to  discover  how  it  was  that  the  sys- 
tem she  had  learnt  had  failed,  to  recall  where  it 
was  that  she  had  made  mistakes,  calculating  again 
and  again  how  much  she  had  lost,  how  she  could 


BACCARAT  79 

arrange  to  pay  the  amount,  and  still  have  sufficient 
for  her  hotel  bill,  resolving  desperately  that  if  to- 
morrow she  could  only  get  her  money  back,  only 
leave  off  as  she  had  begun,  she  would  never,  never 
play  again. 

She  had  begun  to  hate  Monsieur  Diderot.  She 
wished  he  had  not  spoken  to  her  in  the  Casino. 
She  wished  she  had  not  walked  with  him  on  the 
esplanade.  He  had  made  her  play,  he  had  won 
all  her  money.  His  sallow  face  and  black  eyes 
rose  before  her  in  the  darkness.  Yes,  she  felt,  she 
knew,  she  hated  him.  She  would  not  speak  to 
him  again. 

But  she  could  not  go  into  the  rooms  alone,  and 
she  must  make  one  more  effort  to  recoup  herself  ; 
for  all  her  money  was  gone.  It  was  John's 
money;  it  was  left  with  her,  so  that  she  might 
pay  her  bill.  She  must,  she  must  get  John's 
money  back. 

Monsieur  Diderot  knew  the  secret  of  how  to 
win;  all  those  stories  he  had  told  her  were  of 
people  who  won  fortunes.  In  a  few  hours  she 
would  see  him.  After  all,  it  was  necessary  that 


80  BACCARAT 

she  should  speak  to  him  again.  She  would  make 
him  tell  her,  she  had  not  asked  him  questions 
enough,  as  to  what  they  had  done,  on  what  sys- 
tems they  had  played,  those  people  who  had  made 
fortunes.  Her  head  ached,  and  she  could  not 
sleep,  and  always  she  heard  the  voices  of  the 
croupiers,  "  Huit  a  la  banque,  la  banque  gagne. 
Faites  vos  jeux.  Neuf  a  la  banque."  And  always 
she  saw  before  her  fevered  eyes  the  threes  and 
fours  of  the  punters,  the  eights  and  the  nines  of 
the  bank.  They  grew  dimmer,  and  more  con- 
fused, phantasmagoria  that  came  and  went  as 
she  drifted  into  uneasy  slumber. 

She  was  suddenly  aroused  by  real  voices. 
Through  the  thin  partition  she  heard  them  dis- 
tinctly, words  and  movement  and  laughter. 
Presently  she  tingled  and  blushed  all  by  herself 
in  the  darkness,  and  shut  her  ears,  and  shrank 
under  the  bedclothes;  and  tried  to  pretend  she 
had  not  heard. 

This  Grand  Hotel  de  Cabourg  with  its  thin 
walls  was  no  place  for  John  Courtney's  wife,  who 
was  still  a  young  woman  and  alone  here.  She 


BACCARAT  81 

was  alone  but  for  the  children,  who  went  to  bed 
so  early,  and  were  not  sufficient  companions  for 
her.  John  blamed  himself  bitterly  later,  when 
he  knew  everything,  when  he  understood  what  he 
had  done.  Julie  had  heard  nothing,  seen  nothing. 
Since  she  had  been  grown  up,  all  the  world  of 
weakness  and  temptation,  of  wickedness  and  un- 
clean things,  had  been  hidden  from  her.  But  at 
Dives-Cabourg  they  were  all  around,  for  every 
one  to  see. 

She  changed  her  room  in  the  morning,  the  airy 
front  room  that  John  had  selected  for  her.  The 
manager  of  this  French  seaside  hotel  did  not 
quite  understand  her  confused  explanation,  did 
not  quite  realise  of  what  she  was  complaining. 
Madame  played  baccarat,  sat  up  in  the  rooms 
until  two  in  the  morning,  and  Madame  wanted 
to  change  her  room  because  she  heard  people  talk- 
ing, because  she  could  not  go  to  sleep!  She  got 
red  when  she  was  trying  to  tell  him,  but  she  told 
him  nothing  except  that  she  had  heard  voices, 
and  that  she  wanted  to  change  her  room.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  he  did  not  understand. 


82  BACCARAT 

But  of  course  he  wished  to  please  all  his  clients; 
it  was  easy  to  find  her  different  quarters. 

She  won  largely  the  day  she  changed  her  room ; 
won  all  she  had  lost  and  more  besides,  and  could 
have  kept  her  vows,  the  promises  she  had  made  to 
herself. 

But,  if  the  change  of  room  had  brought  her 
luck,  how  stupid,  she  thought,  how  wrong,  not  to 
take  advantage  of  it! 

Monsieur  Diderot  became  less  uncongenial  to 
her,  even  necessary  as  a  companion,  when,  in  the 
mornings  on  the  plage,  in  the  evenings  on  the 
esplanade,  going  to  and  from  the  rooms,  he  en- 
couraged or  condoled  with  her,  talked  of  her  good 
or  ill-fortune,  counselled  her  always  with  the 
counsel  she  wished  to  hear. 


CHAPTER   V 

BY  the  time  the  Baron  d'Avril  returned  to 
Cabourg,  free,  as  far  as  Madame  la  Baronne  was 
concerned,  to  pursue  his  good  fortune,  either  with 
the  little  Anglaise,  as  they  still  persisted  in  call- 
ing her,  or  at  the  green  cloth,  Julie  Courtney  had 
become  a  confirmed  gambler.  She  always  vowed 
she  would  never  play  again,  if  once  she  recouped 
herself,  if  once  the  money  John  had  given  her 
was  safe.  She  always  thought,  when  she  was 
winning,  that  it  was  a  pity  to  leave  off  when  the 
luck  had  turned,  that  now  Genie's  dot  was  coming 
to  her,  besides  all  of  her  patrimony  which  her 
father  had  lost.  She  was  different  in  no  one  way 
from  any  other  incurable  with  the  same  disease. 

Instead  of  the  simple  life  she  had  led  when  she 
first  came  to  Cabourg;  the  early  cafe  with  the 
children,  the  long  morning  with  them  on  the 
sands,  bathing  as  the  tide  served,  helping  to  build 
sand  castles,  chattering  to  them  over  her  needle- 

83 


84  BACCARAT 

work;  she  rose  late,  after  her  fevered  nights, 
came  down  only  in  time  for  the  twelve  o'clock 
dejeuner,  slept  in  the  early  afternoon,  and  watched 
the  clock  impatiently  until  she  could  play  again. 

By  the  time  the  Baron  d'Avril  returned  to 
Cabourg,  she  seemed  one  with  the  advertisement 
agents,  and  painted  ladies,  the  Barons,  the  simple 
Messieurs  with  red  ribbons,  and  red  rosettes,  and 
red  and  white  buttons,  whose  unanimous  idea  of 
a  seaside  holiday  was  to  sit  in  an  over-crowded, 
badly-ventilated  room,  making  calculations  on 
little  pieces  of  paper,  staking  their  louis  or  five- 
louis  pieces  against  the  irresistible  bank. 

For  it  was  a  fact  that  the  bank  had  become 
irresistible. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Julie  had  now  no  pretty 
coquetries  or  smiles  for  the  Baron  d'Avril.  She 
had  lost  all  the  money  she  had  won,  all  the  money 
she  had  brought  with  her,  all  the  money  John  had 
given  her  for  the  hotel  bill,  and  she  owed  a  thou- 
sand francs  at  the  Caisse!  If  it  had  not  been  for 
the  encouragement,  for  the  kindness,  for  the  un- 
remitting attentions  of  Monsieur  Diderot  she 


BACCARAT  85 

would  have  been  hopeless,  distracted!  But 
always  he  had  an  argument,  a  suggestion,  that 
brought  back  hope. 

All  the  time  that  Julie  did  not  spend  at  the 
tables  was  spent  in  his  company.  The  Baron  did 
not  find  that  his  interest  in  her  survived  very 
vividly  when  he  took  his  seat  at  the  table  on  the 
Saturday  afternoon  of  his  return.  Some  one  had 
chaffed  him  at  having  been  "  cut  out,"  and,  of 
course,  that  had  annoyed  him.  Being  a  French- 
man, he  had  not  explained  that  he  had  had  noth- 
ing from  Julie  of  which  he  could  be  deprived. 
But  his  amour  propre  resented  that  she  no  longer 
responded  to  his  glances.  He  was  ready  to  be- 
lieve everything  he  heard.  She  had  accepted  the 
attentions  of  the  Belgian,  she  did  not  command 
his  respect. 

Something  of  her  beauty  was  gone,  it  seemed. 
She  was  haggard  from  want  of  sleep,  the  tints  of 
her  complexion  had  yellowed  a  little.  The  fever 
had  grown  acute,  her  restless  fingers  played  con- 
stantly with  the  counters,  her  eager  eyes  followed 
the  cards.  It  had  become  etiquette  to  leave  to 


86  BACCARAT 

her  the  seat  at  the  right  hand  of  the  banker.  She 
spoke  to  him  now  and  again  as  she  exclaimed 
against  the  luck. 

The  bank  had  become  irresistible. 

The  Baron  heard  all  around  him  stories  of 
phenomenal  runs,  stories  of  the  amounts  the 
bank  had  won,  stories  of  colossal  losses.  The 
sums  mentioned,  appalling  for  Cabourg,  where 
respectable  Parisian  bourgeois  had  hitherto  ven- 
tured only  their  hundred  francs  or  so,  were  not 
so  large  in  the  ears  of  the  Baron  d'Avril,  who  was 
accustomed  to  play  at  Trouville  and  Monte  Carlo. 
Only  their  persistency  made  them  remarkable.  It 
seemed  that  no  one  had  won !  The  two  thousand 
francs  that  the  Baron  d'Avril  had  taken  away 
with  him  a  week  ago  was  the  only  amount,  it 
appeared,  that  could  be  traced  against  the  bank. 

Of  course,  there  was,  and  had  been,  grumbling, 
whispered  comments,  doubts.  And  always  there 
was  a  crowd  around  the  table,  punting  now  in 
louis,  now  in  notes  of  a  hundred,  five  hundred,  a 
thousand  francs,  amid  murmurs  and  muttered 
exclamations. 


BACCARAT  87 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  Baron's  return,  how- 
ever, there  came  a  change.  There  were  more 
people  than  ever  in  the  rooms,  for  rumours  of 
high  play  had  brought  in  visitors  from  Beuze- 
ville,  and  Villers,  from  Dives,  and  even  from 
Caen  and  Honfleur.  There  had  been  racing  at 
Deauville  earlier  in  the  week,  and  on  the  follow- 
ing day  the  "  Grand  Prix  de  Trouville"  was  to 
be  run.  Every  room  in  the  hotel  was  full. 

Leon  Diderot  had  strongly  urged  Julie  to  make 
a  bold  bid  for  fortune  that  afternoon,  to  go  for  a 
coup.  The  Baron  d'Avril,  who  watched  her  in 
the  intervals  of  his  own  game,  notwithstanding 
his  abated  interest  in  her,  saw  that  her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and  that  she  was  playing  recklessly. 
Also  that  the  banker  once  said  a  quiet  word  to 
her,  to  which  she  replied  impatiently. 

There  was  money  to  be  won  that  afternoon.  It 
was  not  a  thousand-franc  crowd  that  was  throng- 
ing the  tables,  but  small  punters  were  there,  who 
staked  their  louis  and  left  them  on,  and  withdrew 
after  a  pass  of  three,  and  were  altogether  careful 
and  experienced.  The  bank  lost  steadily.  The 


88  BACCARAT 

Baron  d'Avril  added  to  his  winnings,  was  good- 
humoured,  and  even  made  little  jokes  across  the 
table.  Only  Julie,  by  some  persistent  misfortune, 
staking  at  the  wrong  time,  diminishing  the  num- 
ber of  counters  when  she  should  have  increased 
them,  playing  for  the  coup  inopportunely,  had  not 
succeeded  in  benefiting  by  the  bank's  losses. 

In  truth,  poor  Julie  had  lost  her  courage. 

Her  gathering  difficulties  and  growing  unhap- 
piness  were  complicated  by  the  correspondence 
with  John.  She  had,  unfortunately,  written  him 
very  fully  about  her  first  evening's  experiment 
under  the  guidance  of  the  Baron  d'Avril.  He 
had  replied  immediately  and  peremptorily,  de- 
siring her  not  to  play  again,  nor  to  go  into  the 
rooms.  He  did  not  remind  her  of  her  father's 
career,  he  loved  her  too  much  for  that,  but  he 
told  her  he  absolutely  disapproved  of  her  playing 
cards  at  a  public  table,  and  that  she  must  never  do 
so  again.  But  three  or  four  days  had  intervened 
between  her  letter  and  his  reply  to  it,  and  in  those 
three  or  four  days,  as  we  know,  she  had  lost  all 
her  money,  and  was  already  in  debt,  and  her 


BACCARAT  89 

mode  of  life  at  Cabourg  had  become  habitual. 
The  fever  had  sapped  her  morality;  she  was  no 
longer  the  good  obedient  wife,  the  confiding  Julie, 
of  her  first  letter. 

If  she  could  get  her  money  back,  she  would 
not  play  again.  Then  he  would  not  know,  he 
need  never  know,  that  she  had  disobeyed  him; 
this  was  what  she  thought  when  she  read  what 
John  had  written.  She  would  not  distress  him 
by  telling  him,  that  was  how  she  solaced  her 
conscience.  There  was  no  further  mention  of 
baccarat  in  her  letters,  and  John,  who  was  not 
suspicious  by  nature,  not  a  gambler,  and  was  for- 
getful or  oblivious  of  French  seaside  custom,  was 
satisfied  with  the  short  account  he  got  of  fetes  on 
the  sands,  and  children's  dances  in  the  Casino, 
and  fireworks  in  the  evenings. 

Her  disingenuousness  reacted  on  her  character, 
and  made  her  always  more  and  more  reckless. 
Always,  she  told  herself  she  would  not  play  after 
to-day.  But  the  day  when  she  did  not  play  had 
not  yet  come!  And  now  the  sixty  pounds  John 
had  given  her  for  the  three  weeks'  bills  were  all 


90  BACCARAT 

gone,  and  she  had  had  forty  pounds  from  the 
Caisse,  and  that  very  morning  she  had  heard  from 
John  that,  as  Mr.  Jarvis  was  going  away  on 
Sunday,  he  would  take  the  night  boat  for  Havre, 
and  on  Monday  afternoon,  or  evening  at  latest, 
he  would  be  with  her  in  Cabourg! 

No  wonder  she  looked  drawn,  haggard,  and 
unhappy,  and  had  no  smiles  nor  pretty  coquetries 
with  which  to  greet  the  return  of  the  Baron. 

A  certain  measure  of  reticence,  a  certain  guard, 
Monsieur  Diderot  had  put  upon  himself.  This 
was  for  him  the  very  woman  to  preside  over  that 
establishment  which  already  the  season  in  Ca- 
bourg was  making  possible.  It  was  true  he  was 
playing  for  the  association,  and  that  Monsieur 
Bertrand  and  the  management  had  their  interest 
in  the  play.  But  it  had  been  a  good  season  so  far, 
and  with  so  many  people  in  Cabourg  it  promised 
to  finish  even  better.  The  pretty  little  woman 
would  have  to  learn  to  play  with  discretion,  and 
she  must  avoid  the  late  hours  that  spoilt  her  com- 
plexion, the  excitement  that  shook  her  nerves. 
It  was  the  Aphrodite  of  the  morning  bath  he 


BACCARAT  91 

wanted  for  his  rooms,  which  the  Cabourg  season, 
and  perhaps  a  good  finish  in  September  at  Ostend, 
would  make  possible  that  winter  in  Paris. 

He  knew  a  little  of  her  position.  It  was  made 
clearer  to  him  presently. 

"  Ne  dines  pas  seule  ce  soir,"  he  said  to  Julie, 
when  they  were  out  of  the  rooms. 

They  always  went  the  longest  way  back  to  the 
hotel,  into  the  air  and  round  by  the  sea  front, 
instead  of  through  the  Casino. 

"  Do  me  the  honour,  for  once,  of  joining  my 
table.  We  will  talk  over  things  together.  You 
ought  to  have  won  this  afternoon,  we  must  see 
what  we  can  manage  for  this  evening;  you  must 
try  a  new  system." 

Almost  a  sob  escaped  her. 

"  Mon  mari  vient  lundi,  je  ne  sais  ce  que  je 
ferai!" 

He  was  sorry  it  must  be  so  soon.  Of  course 
the  season  at  Cabourg  would  not  last  long,  but 
he  had  counted  on  another  week. 

"  Oh,  well,  there  is  to-night,  and  twice  to-mor- 
row, and  who  knows  what  will  happen?" 


92  BACCARAT 


Mais — mais- 


Of  course  he  knew  she  had  no  money  with  her 
and  that  she  had  borrowed  as  much  as  she  could 
from  the  Caisse.  At  his  suggestion  a  hint  had 
been  given  her  that  the  Caisse  balanced  its  books 
at  the  end  of  the  week. 

"  I  haven't  enough  with  me  to — to  play  up 
properly.  It  is  horrible  to  be  cramped  for  capi- 
tal. If  it  had  not  been  for  that,  this  afternoon, 
I  should  have  won;  I  know  I  should  have  won." 

He  commiserated  with  her,  he  was  thoroughly 
sympathetic.  He  said  he  had  thought  of  a  way 
out;  he  would  tell  her  at  dinner.  They  only 
parted  at  the  door  of  her  room,  his  own  was 
along  the  same  corridor. 

Her  toilette,  that  night  again,  suited  her  ad- 
mirably. It  was  red,  and  the  large  hat  formed  a 
background  against  which  her  brown  eyes  and 
black  hair  took  depth  and  picturesqueness.  It 
threw  colour  into  the  pale  olive  of  her  skin,  and 
accentuated  the  soft  crimson  of  her  lips.  Her 
English  flush  had  vanished,  but  the  reds  in  her 
hat  reflected  an  artificial  bloom. 


L6on  Diderot,  seated  opposite  to  her  at  the  narrow  table,  had  once 
more  that  expression  of  satisfied  connoisseurship. 


BACCARAT  93 

Leon  Diderot,  seated  opposite  to  her,  at  the 
narrow  table  by  the  window  that  overlooked  the 
sea,  had  once  more  that  expression  of  satisfied 
connoisseurship.  The  charming  figure  was  hardly 
revealed  through  the  transparent  lace  of  her  high 
corsage.  But  he  had  seen  its  perfection  that 
morning,  again,  in  her  wet  bathing  dress.  He 
was  not  quite  so  careful,  quite  so  self-restrained, 
as  usual.  It  was  the  first  meal  they  had  had 
together.  He  persuaded  her  to  drink  champagne, 
and  the  wine  brought  more  colour  into  her  cheeks. 
The  Baron  d'Avril  might  think  she  had  gone  off, 
but,  to  Monsieur  Diderot,  with  a  certain  gleam 
in  his  hard  eyes,  and  a  moistening  of  his  lips, 
finding  himself  less  calm  than  usual,  she  seemed 
wholly  desirable  and  attractive. 

At  first  she  was  nervous  and  ill  at  ease;  she 
was  not  sure  she  ought  to  have  dined  with  him. 
She  looked  constantly  round  to  see  if  people  were 
noticing  them,  her  conversation  was  constrained. 

But  the  tables  next  them  were  filled  by  family 
parties ;  the  Cabourg  visitors  are  polygot.  There 
were  some  Spaniards  with  their  children  in  bright- 


94  BACCARAT 

coloured  clothes,  swarthy  and  torpid;  there  were 
four  Germans,  talking  at  the  top  of  their  voices, 
disputing  with  the  waiters  over  pfennigs,  discuss- 
ing dishes;  and  there  was  an  American  jockey 
with  a  heavily  scented  cocotte.  Nobody  was  ob- 
serving Julie  or  her  companion.  And  gradually, 
as  the  unaccustomed  wine  ran  through  her  veins, 
she  became,  externally  at  least,  the  Julie  of  a 
fortnight  ago,  all  pretty  shyness  and  gesticula- 
tion, with  innocent  coquettish  speech. 

Diderot  rilled  her  glass  again  and  again,  he  saw 
that  she  dined  well,  he  met  her  easier  mood. 

Presently  they  began  to  talk  more  and  more 
freely.  Her  husband  was  coming  on  Mon- 
day! Then,  even  if  she  had  won  all  her  money 
back,  if  she  need  never  tell  him  how  she  had 
spent  her  time,  it  would  be,  perhaps,  a  little  mono- 
tone. It  would  be  triste  in  Cabourg,  if  at  five 
o'clock  every  day  she  should  fairc  une  prome- 
nade with  John;  if  every  evening  at  half-past 
nine,  when  the  tables  were  crowded  and  all  the 
excitement  and  the  play  were  going  on,  she 
and  John  should  sit  together  in  their  room,  or 


BACCARAT  95 

walk  a  little  on  the  sea  front,  and  at  ten  go 
quietly  to  bed! 

It  was  at  Diderot's  instigation  that  all  this, 
which  she  had  anticipated  with  such  pleasure, 
appeared  suddenly  dull  and  banale,  and  monot- 
onous. 

Madame  was  not  born  for  that  humdrum 
stupide  English  life.  Madame  should  be  where 
there  were  always  gaiety  and  life,  people  coming 
and  going,  music,  and  fine  toilettes!  And  Ma- 
dame ought  to  wear  jewellery,  she  ought  to  have 
a  string  of  pearls  like  Madame  la  Comtesse  de 
Dossy,  or  rubies,  rubies  the  colour,  so  exquisite, 
of  Madame's  lips!  They  did  not  pay  compli- 
ments to  married  women  in  Southampton;  and 
certainly  no  one  before  had  made  love  to  the  wife 
of  John  Courtney,  or  told  her  that  she  was  wasted 
on  a  phlegmatic  English  husband,  that  she  was 
born  for  a  life  of  gaiety,  being  so  beautiful  and 
charming.  Everything,  she  was  now  told,  that 
wealth  could  give,  should  be  hers.  She  ought  to 
reign,  her  beauty  entitled  her  to  be  queen  of  a 
salon.  It  made  her  uncomfortable,  this  talk,  for 


96  BACCARAT 

of  course  there  was  no  one  but  John  whose  ad- 
miration she  wanted.  But  to-night,  to-night, 
what  was  she  to  gamble  with  to-night  ?  She  must 
get  John's  money  back. 

Perhaps  as  the  unaccustomed  champagne 
flowed,  did  Julie  begin  to  see  more  vividly  than 
her  duty,  or  her  children,  or  her  John,  the  dazzle 
of  the  picture  Diderot  was  drawing  for  her,  the 
life  all  pleasure,  where  one  only  dressed  and 
played,  and  listened  to  music,  where  the  sky  was 
always  blue  and  the  air  was  always  clear,  and  a 
pretty  woman — she  had  almost  forgotten  she  was 
pretty,  except  when  John  or  her  children  saw  her 
in  a  new  dress — had  the  homage  and  the  tributes 
of  all  men.  In  that  gay  world  of  which  he  told 
her,  at  places  of  which  she  had  not  even  heard,  she 
might  play  and  play  and  play,  and  never  remem- 
ber that  she  had  lost  the  money  John  had  given 
her  for  her  hotel  bill,  and  was  in  debt.  .  .  . 

The  dinner  was  not  long,  although  they  sat 
and  sat,  until  the  Germans,  still  disputing,  had 
clamped  their  noisy  way  out  of  the  salle  a  manger; 
until  the  Spaniards,  with  sleepy  courtesy,  had 


BACCARAT  97 

bade  their  dignified  "  good  evening"  to  the  ob- 
sequious maitre  d' hotel;  until  even  the  band  had 
departed,  and  through  gaps  of  empty  tables  one 
saw  the  perspiring  waiters  standing  about  to  cool 
themselves. 

Leon  Diderot  had  made  up  his  mind.  Her 
husband  was  coming  on  Monday,  and  she  had 
lost  all  the  money  he  had  given  her  for  her  hotel 
bills.  Nothing  had  been  paid!  Moreover,  she 
owed  the  Caisse  nearly  two  thousand  francs,  and 
she  had  in  her  purse  but  three  louis  with  which 
to  win  back  all  her  losses,  only  three  louis  with 
which  to  play  to-night,  to-morrow,  and  again 
in  the  evening.  Of  course  she  was  distracted,  of 
course  she  could  not  sleep  at  night,  of  course  she 
had  looked  this  afternoon  tired  and  haggard  and 
unhappy.  But,  dining  in  company,  and  talking, 
and  the  wine,  had  done  her  good.  He  made  her 
take  a  Benedictine  with  her  coffee.  Gradually 
she  had  confided  everything  to  him,  everything 
that  he  had  guessed  so  well  before.  It  was  the 
nature  of  this  poor  Julie  to  be  emotional,  carried 
away  by  the  moment,  to  live  in  each  little  hour, 


98  BACCARAT 

the  little  hours  that  should  have  been  all  sun- 
shine. 

Leon  told  her,  after  they  had  had  their  coffee, 
when  they  stood  for  a  few  moments  on  the  steps 
of  the  hotel,  that  she  must  not  trouble  about  any- 
thing. He  would  not  see  her  troubled.  She 
should  not  borrow  of  the  Caisse,  not  go  into  the 
rooms  without  capital  to  play  with.  He  would 
go  upstairs  with  her,  and  bring  her,  to  her  room, 
a  thousand  francs.  With  that  she  could  play  all 
the  evening,  she  could  give  herself  the  chance  of 
winning.  To-morrow?  Well,  to-morrow  must 
take  care  of  itself !  A  chaque  jour  suffit  so,  peine. 
She  might  win  a  fortune  with  a  thousand  francs, 
he  had  seen  it  done  with  five! 

Presently  they  went  upstairs  together,  their 
rooms  being  on  the  same  corridor.  He  told  her 
that  whilst  she  was  putting  on  her  gloves  and 
adjusting  her  veil,  he  would  get  the  money  for 
her. 

Before  she  had  done  more  than  open  her  ward- 
robe, before  she  had  sought  her  hat,  her  veil,  her 
evening  wrap,  she  heard  his  knock  at  the  door. 


BACCARAT  99 

She  was  imprudent,  but  she  did  not  realise 
she  was  being  imprudent.  He  had  always  been 
respectful,  and  she  had  not  found  him  less  so 
during  dinner  to-night.  And  how  could  she  play 
without  money?  When  she  had  asked  for  more 
at  the  Caisse  this  afternoon  they  had  hesitated, 
and  made  her  blush  furiously,  and  feel  ashamed. 

She  went  to  the  door. 

He  was  standing  outside,  but  the  corridor  was 
dark.  He  had  a  pocket-book  in  his  hand,  he 
fumbled  at  the  contents. 

"  I  have  brought  you  the  notes,  but  I  cannot 
see.  .  .  ." 

The  quick  "  come  in"  was  said  without  inten- 
tion. He  was  in  the  room  before  she  realised  it. 
He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  but  his  manner 
was  just  the  same,  not  familiar  at  all,  very  quiet. 
If  her  heart  was  beating  quickly,  and  the  flush 
was  coming  and  going  in  her  .cheeks,  it  was  the 
wine  she  had  drunk,  she  knew  it  was  the  wine 
she  had  drunk,  that  made  all  her  pulses  suddenly 
throb. 

Notwithstanding  that   Monsieur  Diderot  still 


100  BACCARAT 

examined  his  pocket-book  for  the  notes,  he  saw 
the  distracting  disorder  of  his  lady's  room.  The 
pink  peignoir  hanging  in  the  open  wardrobe,  with 
its  silks  and  laces,  the  turned-down  bed,  the  dainty 
nightgown  laid  out,  the  blue  small  slippers  on 
the  floor,  the  dressing-table  with  its  silver  brushes 
and  mirrors.  And  over  everything  was  that  im- 
palpable feminine  perfume,  made  up  of  scent 
sachets  and  powder  and  water  softeners,  aromatic, 
dainty  and  intoxicating. 

His  hands,  those  deft,  and  slender  fingered, 
croupier's  hands  of  his,  trembled  a  little  as  he 
counted  out  to  her  the  thin  soft  foreign  notes. 

"  Un,  deux,  trois,"  he  counted  up  to  ten.  Then 
his  eyes  met  hers.  If  she  had  not  smiled,  because 
she  was  nervous,  with  lips  rather  tremulous,  with 
a  little  trick  of  uplifted  eyebrow,  with  the  brown 
eyes  half  frightened,  half  amused,  if  she  had  not, 
in  fact,  been  Julie,  un  peu  coquette  au  fond,  and 
wanting  to  thank  Monsieur  Diderot,  though  her 
words  came  not  easily,  he  might  not  have  dared. 
But  as  it  was  .  .  . 

Well!   that  one,  that  little,  kiss  he  took  could 


BACCARAT  101 

hurt  no  one.  Julie  was  shocked,  but  she  could 
not  resent  it,  she  could  push  him  away,  and  hear 
her  own  heart  beating,  and  be  scarlet  and  angry 
and  nearly  crying.  But  she  could  not  play  with- 
out his  notes;  they  were  still  in  his  hand. 

And  he  apologised  profusely.  "  Madame  was 
so  adorable,  and  in  her  own  room — he  was  only  a 
man !  He  was  a  thousand  times  regretful.  See ! 
he  knelt,  he  kissed  her  hand,  he  implored  her 
pardon." 

She  would  not  have  said  she  forgave  him  if 
she  had  not  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him,  wanted 
him  to  go  from  her  room.  It  was  absurd  of  him 
to  be  on  his  knees — he  must  get  up,  vite,  vite! 
he  must  go.  Marie  might  be  coming  in,  the 
chambermaid  might  knock.  She  was  adorably 
shy  and  distressed,  and  yet,  he  thought,  not  cold. 

When  he  had  risen  again  to  his  feet,  when  he 
gave  her  the  notes,  he  grew  bolder. 

Ah !  but  Madame  would  not  send  him  away  at 
once,  that  moment?  She  could  not  be  so  cruel! 

She  did  not  want  to  kiss  him,  although  her 
heart  was  beating  so  fast,  and  her  cheeks  were  so 


102  BACCARAT 

flushed,  and  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  the 
money,  for  the  means  to  play  again.  The  scene, 
the  little  drama  of  his  kneeling,  of  his  imploring, 
amid  the  disorder  of  the  room,  was  all  one  with 
the  wine  and  the  excitement.  And  perhaps  Julie 
found  something  not  unpleasant  in  the  excitement, 
whilst  the  wine  was  still  warm  in  her  veins. 
When,  this  time  with  more  deliberation,  more 
lingeringly,  his  arms  were  about  her,  and  his  lips 
found  hers,  she  grew  suddenly  quiescent,  follow- 
ing the  thrill,  the  sudden  heat,  the  emotion  that 
was  so  new  to  her.  How  strange  of  him  to  kiss 
her  like  that,  how  wrong.  She  had  been  married 
to  an  Englishman.  Leon  found  the  way  to  sur- 
prise her.  .  .  . 

That  the  valet  de  chambre  forgot  to  knock,  that 
he  came  into  the  room  as  he  always  came  at  this 
time  in  the  evening,  to  tidy  it,  after  Madame  had 
gone  downstairs,  was  a  thousand  times  unfortu- 
nate. It  was  worse  than  unfortunate,  it  was  ter- 
rible, that  the  Baron  d'Avril  happened  to  be  pass- 
ing through  the  corridor  at  the  moment  the  door 
opened.  Her  own  confusion,  and  Leon  Diderot's 


BACCARAT  103 

self-possession,  were  equally  abominable.  Leon's 
shrug,  his  regrets,  his  douceur  to  the  valet  when 
he  made  his  smiling,  compromising  explanation, 
were  all  separate  outrages. 

She  remained  alone  in  her  room  a  little  while 
when  he  had  gone  out,  trying  to  recover  herself, 
her  calm,  her  reasoning  power.  She  had  done 
no  harm,  why,  then,  should  she  be  so  agitated,  so 
excited  ? 

It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  the  events  of 
that  evening,  and  of  the  play;  it  were  cruel  to 
dwell  upon  them.  She  could  not  stay  alone  in 
her  room,  it  was  full  of  that  new  experience,  of 
the  open  door,  and  the  face  of  the  Baron  d'Avril, 
of  the  expression  of  the  valet  de  chambre,  of  ... 
of  her  own  thoughts. 

She  would  go  down,  she  would  play  just  that 
once  more.  To-night  she  was  sure  she  would 
win.  Then  she  would  give  Monsieur  Diderot 
back  his  thousand  francs,  and  she  would  pay  the 
Caisse,  and  perhaps,  perhaps,  there  would  be 
John's  money,  too.  She  would  never  play  again. 
To-morrow  she  would  go  to  church  with  her 


104  BACCARAT 

children,  to  the  Protestant  church  at  Beuzeville. 
On  Monday  John  would  be  here!  He  would 
like  to  hear  she  had  been  at  the  Protestant  church 
with  the  children. 

In  the  gambling  room,  the  Baron's  ironical 
greeting,  the  smiles  she  saw,  or  imagined,  on  the 
faces  of  the  women,  the  curiosity  or  interest 
in  Monsieur  Bertrand's  glances,  as  he  gossipped 
with  the  Baron,  and  anon  looked  in  her  direc- 
tion, rasped  her  quivering  nerves,  and  made  it 
impossible  for  her  to  concentrate  her  mind  on 
the  play. 

She  was  ashamed,  yes,  it  was  shame  that  sent 
quiver  after  quiver  through  her,  that  made  her 
hide  her  downcast  eyes,  and  feel  that  every  one  in 
all  that  room  was  looking  at  her,  was  staring  at 
her,  was  seeing  Leon  Diderot  as  he  had  stood  up 
with  her  in  her  room,  and  given  her  that  strange 
kiss. 

He  had  kept  her  usual  place  for  her  beside  him. 
In  some  quiet  way,  almost  without  speech,  he 
conveyed  his  sympathy,  his  understanding.  Her 
footstool  was  there,  her  card  and  pencil  were 


BACCARAT  105 

there;  there  was  a  little  pile  of  counters  in  front 
of  her. 

"  C'est  une  intermittence,"  he  said,  "  I  told  the 
changeur  you  would  want  counters  ready.  We 
have  played  only  one  round." 

With  fingers  that  trembled  she  tried  to  take 
up  the  thread  of  the  game,  to  mark  her  card,  and 
stake  her  louis. 

This  was  the  last,  the  very  last  time  she  would 
ever  play !  On  Monday  John  would  be  here,  she 
would  make  him  take  her  away  from  this  horrible 
Cabourg,  these  men  that  smiled  and  shrugged, 
these  women  that  stared,  back  to  dear  South- 
ampton, her  little  house,  her  quiet  friends,  her  life 
so  still  and  orderly. 

But  if  she  could  get  back  all  her  money,  if  she 
could  pay  back  the  Caisse,  and  Monsieur  Diderot, 
and  everybody,  how  much  easier  it  would  be  to 
meet  John,  to  tell  him  everything,  to  be  as  she 
had  been  ten  days  ago.  Ten  days !  it  was  a  cycle, 
an  age! 

She  was  winning,  not  largely,  but  winning 
nevertheless.  Her  louis  came  back  to  her  again 


106  BACCARAT 

and  again.  It  was  an  intermittence,  well  marked. 
She  had  learnt  a  little  of  the  game,  and  now  took 
only  alternate  chances.  Soon,  very  soon,  she  for- 
got everything  and  everybody,  in  the  absorption 
of  her  calculations.  It  was  really  a  remarkable 
series,  just  such  a  run  that  fell  in  with  the  system 
she  had  acquired.  Her  pile  of  counters  grew 
steadily  larger  and  larger.  It  seemed  a  pity  to 
play  in  louis  when  the  game  was  so  set,  so 
certain. 

She  began  to  punt  in  notes.  In  four  deals  she 
had  won  cinq  cent  francs!  Her  heart  beat  high, 
her  hopefulness  returned.  She  had  no  memory, 
or  thought,  of  anything  but  the  cards.  How  soon 
it  was  the  end  of  the  taille!  How  slowly  the 
croupier  shuffled!  She  could  hardly  restrain 
herself  from  crying  out,  "  Cela  est  asses,  surement 
c'est  asses!"  as  the  six  new  packs  were  opened, 
and  shuffled,  and  reshuffled. 

At  last  it  was  done,  the  red  card  was  handed 
to  her  politely  for  the  cut.  Her  fingers  trembled 
as  she  inserted  it.  Now  they  were  all  stacked 
before  Monsieur  Diderot,  he  had  patted  them 


BACCARAT  107 

down  into  easy  position  for  him,  and  the  new 
deal  began. 

But  the  intermittence,  the  regularity,  all  that 
had  made  the  "  system"  play  so  well,  were  at  an 
end !  Two  wins  for  the  punt,  one  for  the  bank, 
three  for  the  punt,  seven  for  the  bank!  Who 
could  play  such  a  series  ?  And  she  was  playing  in 
notes,  going  for  a  coup. 

But  the  coup! — the  coup  eluded  her.  Again 
and  again  she  tried  for  it,  and  doubled,  and  lost 
again,  and  then  won,  and  increased  the  stake ;  and 
saw  the  whole  swept  away!  The  system  was 
absurd,  infamous.  She  discarded  it,  and  decided 
to  play  by  inspiration.  It  came  to  her  that  Mon- 
sieur Diderot  had  told  her  gambling  was  an  in- 
spiration! But,  unfortunately,  her  inspiration 
was  as  faulty  as  the  system.  Whenever  she  in- 
creased her  stake,  that  was  the  time  "  Neuf  a  la 
banque"  or  "  Huit  a  la  banque"  was  called  in  that 
maddeningly  monotonous  way  by  the  croupier. 
What  an  atrocious  accent  he  had  too,  the  man 
could  not  be  a  Frenchman  at  all!  If,  for  once, 
she  did  not  stake,  or  staked  little,  whether  it  was 


108  BACCARAT 

a  six  or  a  five  at  which  the  player  stopped,  it  did 
not  matter,  the  bank  was  baccarat,  and  Leon 
Diderot's  quiet  "  Payez"  brought  her  back  only 
a  miserable  counter  or  so. 

She  lost  her  self-control.  Recklessly  now  she 
shoved  her  money  over  the  line.  The  bank  won 
and  lost,  but  always  Julie  lost ;  or  so  it  seemed  to 
her.  There  was  a  run  of  three  for  the  table,  of 
seven  for  the  bank,  it  was  again : 

"  Dernier  coup.  II  y  a  six  cartes  a  la  coupe. 
Qui  ponte  accepte,"  sang  out  the  croupier,  in  his 
monotonous  chant.  In  a  half  mad  moment  she 
put  all  that  was  in  front  of  her  over  the  line 
.  .  .  there  was  a  sickening  moment  of  suspense. 
"  A  la  banque,  huit  a  la  banque,  la  banque  gagne" 

It  was  all  over. 

She  staggered  up  from  her  chair,  it  grated  on 
the  floor  as  she  pushed  it  away,  and  everybody 
looked  up.  "  Madame  a  de  la  guigne,"  said  the 
changeur  sympathetically.  Already  some  one  had 
slipped  into  the  place  she  had  left  vacant.  But 
there  was  a  pause  in  the  play ;  she  had  not  heard 
what  Monsieur  had  said,  but  there  was  another 


There  were  many  to  note  her  going.  But  only  those  few  who 
were  seated  at  the  table  shrugged  their  shoulders,  or  smiled  their 
knowing  smiles. 


BACCARAT  109 

sound  of  the  scraping  of  a  chair  on  the  wooden 
floor. 

"  La  banque  est  aux  encheres.  Qui  veut  la 
banque.  Cinq  louis  a  la  banque,  dix  louis  a  la 
banque,  quinze  louis  a  la  banque,  Une  fois,  deux 
fois.  La  banque  est  adjugee  a  quinze  louis." 

The  high  play  was  over,  at  least  for  the  mo- 
ment. Monsieur  Diderot  had  had  enough,  he 
was  tired  of  it,  he  relinquished  his  seat. 

Julie  was  not  quite  steady  on  her  feet,  the  lamps 
seemed  to  be  swaying  and  growing  dim.  She  was 
glad  to  find  Diderot  by  her  side.  The  gambling 
room  had  grown  fuller  and  fuller  as  the  evening 
had  worn  on,  and  first  the  audience  from  the 
theatre,  and  then  the  dancers  from  the  Casino, 
had  joined  their  parties  in  the  cercle.  She  had 
to  thread  her  way  through  the  crowd.  There 
were  many  to  note  her  going.  But  only  those 
few  who  were  seated  at  the  table,  who  had,  as  it 
were,  watched  the  drama  from  its  inception, 
shrugged  their  shoulders,  or  smiled  their  knowing 
smiles,  when  the  banker  followed  her  from  the 
room. 


110  BACCARAT 

To  the  many  visitors  at  Dives-Cabourg,  in- 
trigue and  easy  commerce  were  familiar  sights. 
They  knew  nothing  of  John,  or  the  children;  to 
them  there  was  nothing  tragic  in  the  situation. 

She  was  not  feeling  well,  it  was  the  moment 
of  reaction  from  the  excitement,  from  the  cham- 
pagne, from  the  play.  As  soon  as  she  was  in  the 
air  her  faintness  wore  off,  but  she  grew  hysterical, 
she  cried. 

When  she  found  herself  on  one  of  the  seats 
overlooking  the  sea,  she  was  glad  of  the  sup- 
port of  an  encircling  arm.  When  she  recovered 
herself  a  little,  she  asked  Diderot  why  he  had 
left  off  playing.  She  thanked  him  for  his  at- 
tentions, and  said  she  was  "  all  right  now,"  he 
must  go  back. 

"  I  have  had  enough.  I  am  tired  of  it  for  to- 
night, and  you,  too,  you  are  over-tired.  They 
keep  the  rooms  too  hot,  too  close,  and  all  those 
people  in  there  to-night  made  the  atmosphere 
impossible.  When  you  are  better,  well  enough 
to  move,  I  suggest  a  little  supper  together,  a  sand- 
wich, a  glass  of  wine,  otherwise  you  will  not 


BACCARAT  111 

sleep.  Pouf!  One  was  asphyxiated  in  there ;  my 
mouth  is  quite  dry." 

When  she  had  further  recovered,  when  her 
head  grew  clearer,  and  she  saw  the  moon,  and 
the  dark  heave  of  the  waves,  she  could  not  put 
away  thought.  Maddeningly  it  pressed  upon  her, 
she  felt  sick  with  it,  sick  as  when  she  was  in  that 
awful  steamer.  How  happy  she  was  then,  when 
she  thought  she  was  so  miserable,  and  how  good 
John  had  been,  how  tender! 

She  had  gambled,  gambled  away  all  her  money, 
and  his,  and  the  children's.  How  could  she  ever 
face  him?  And  before  her  was  the  dreadful 
night,  when  she  would  lie  awake  and  think  of 
everything,  and  the  darkness  would  be  full  of 
vague  terrors,  and  she  would  hear  voices,  and  the 
creaking  of  doors,  and  there  would  be  nothing 
for  her  but  thought,  awful  thought  and  wakeful- 
ness! 

Of  course  she  was  glad  to  put  off  the  com- 
mencement of  that  miserable  night  she  foresaw. 
She  went  with  him  to  the  salle  a  manger.  The 
sandwiches  were  dry  and  tasteless,  but  the  cham- 


112  BACCARAT 

pagne  was  cold  and  sparkling,  and  welcome  to 
her  parched  tongue.  Why  had  she  been  afraid 
of  it?  Now  she  drank  and  drank  again;  she 
was  extraordinarily  thirsty.  It  was  kind,  it  was 
charmant,  of  Monsieur  Diderot  to  have  given  up 
his  play  for  her.  The  money  was  nothing,  he 
said,  a  bagatelle,  she  could  have  more.  What 
was  money  when  a  pretty  woman  was  concerned. 
She,  too,  began  to  think  it  was  not  of  so  much 
importance,  she  was  exaggerating  its  importance. 
Now  that  she  was  recovering  her  spirits,  she  must 
tell  Monsieur  Diderot  that  she  was  grateful  to 
him,  that  he  was  being  a  good  friend  to  her ;  she 
felt  better,  well,  happy  again.  He  had  been  so 
kind,  he  must  not  bore  himself  with  her!  She 
began  to  talk,  and  laugh,  and  show  her  dimples 
and  her  pretty  teeth.  She  was  not  quite  sure  what 
she  was  saying,  but  she  knew  she  was  being 
amusing,  for  both  of  them  were  laughing  nearly 
all  the  time. 

It  was  quite  a  merry  supper,  but  the  room 
went  up  and  down  when  she  tried  to  cross  it, 
when  she  must  go  upstairs.  She  did  not  know 


BACCARAT  113 

why  the  room  went  round,  why  her  head  was  so 
strange.  But  it  was  very  amusing,  she  laughed 
about  it  as  he  gave  her  his  arm,  assisted  her. 
Their  rooms  were  in  the  same  corridor,  he  as- 
sured her  it  was  no  trouble. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  next  day,  although  she  rose  late,  and  her 
head  ached  fearfully,  and  she  felt  ill,  desperately, 
miserably  ill,  with  her  fevered  tongue  and  cracked 
lips,  and  some  horrible,  horrible  memory  that  she 
could  not  put  away  from  her,  some  nightmare 
that  she  dared  not,  could  not  face,  she  yet  would 
keep  her  promise  to  go  to  church  with  the 
children. 

They  came  to  her  whilst  she  was  still  in  bed. 
She  made  them  clamber  up,  and  lie  on  either  side 
of  her.  She  clasped  them  close;  it  could  not, 
could  not  be,  that  what  she  remembered  was 
true,  or  that  dear  little  face  of  Eugenie,  with  its 
quaint  marked  eyebrows  and  eager  mobility, 
would  not  be  snuggling  up  to  her  and  telling  her 
she  was  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty  Mumsey  in  her 
nightgown,  and  "  Genie  would  be  just  like  her 
when  she  was  grown  up." 

It  could  not  be  true,  or  that  little  Jack  on  the 
114 


BACCARAT  115 

other  side,  with  his  funny  lisp,  and  straight  hair, 
and  eyes  that  were  so  like  John's,  would  not  be 
lying  by  her,  kicking  his  feet  on  the  counterpane, 
and  telling  her  he  did  not  want  to  go  to  church; 
he  wanted  to  go  on  the  "  thands,"  and  play  with 
his  spade  and  bucket.  Nothing  could  be  true, 
except  that  her  children  loved  her,  and  she  loved 
them,  and  would  never,  never  be  separated  from 
them.  There  was  a  sob  in  her  voice  as  she 
strained  them  to  her,  and  made  them  tell  her  they 
loved  her. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  extract  sentiment  from 
Eugenie,  who  liked  playing  at  being  "  Mumsey's 
dolly,"  was  fond  of  being  kissed  and  petted  and 
loved,  and  was  generous  with  her  kisses  and  cud- 
dling and  soft  lips  in  response.  But  it  was  diffi- 
cult with  Jack,  who  had  lost  his  baby  ways  with 
his  two  front  teeth,  and  soon  was  tired  of  the 
bed,  and  wriggled  away  from  his  Mumsey,  and 
stamped  about  the  room,  pretending  he  was  a 
soldier,  making  a  musket  of  her  umbrella,  and  a 
sombrero  of  her  best  hat. 

Yet  it  was  all  simple  and  normal,  and  served  to 


116  BACCARAT 

reassure  and  comfort  her,  whilst  Marie  brought 
her  coffee,  and  set  about  putting  out  her  things. 

It  was  too  late  to  get  to  Houlgate  in  time  for 
the  service,  Marie  said.  The  tram-car  went  at 
ten  minutes  to  eleven,  and  already  it  was  half- 
past  ten.  Well,  then,  Jack  should  go  on  the  sands 
as  he  wished.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  bring 
English  habits  with  them  to  the  French  seaside. 
And  she  would  go  on  the  sands  with  them,  or, 
at  least,  join  them  there  as  soon  as  she  was 
dressed.  She  would  get  up,  and  be  with  them 
by  the  time  Jack  had  built  her  a  sand  chair  to 
sit  in. 

She  hated  getting  out  of  bed.  She  hated  facing 
the  day  and  her  thoughts.  She  could  not  push 
that  nightmare  she  had  had  wholly  away  from 
her.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  whilst  she 
was  dressing,  and  her  heart  almost  stopped  in 
its  beating.  She  was  doing  her  hair  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  the  face  she  saw  in  the  glass  was  a 
pale,  frightened  face  with  ashen  lips;  her  cold 
hands  shook  so  that  she  could  not  fasten  up  the 
heavy  braids.  The  voice  with  which  she  called 


BACCARAT  117 

out  "  Entrez"  was  so  unsteady  she  had  to  repeat 
the  word,  and  the  second  time  it  died  in  her 
throat.  She  had  forgotten  she  had  locked  the 
door  when  the  children  and  their  nurse  had  gone 
away,  the  door  which  had  been  unlocked  that 
morning  when  she  awoke!  She  turned  the  key 
now,  and  took  the  note  the  valet  brought  her. 
"Ya  t-il  une  reponse,  Madame f" 
"  Non,  non,  il  n'y  a  pas  de  reponse." 
But  she  did  not  open  the  note;  to  hold  it  in 
her  hand  even  made  her  feel  faint.  It  was  still 
unopened  when  she  had  finished  her  dressing, 
when,  with  her  parasol  and  her  bag,  and  every- 
thing just  as  it  had  been  yesterday,  she  went 
downstairs,  and  through  the  glass  doors  of  the 
hotel  and  on  to  the  front. 

Everything  was  the  same  as  yesterday,  but  she 
was  different,  isolated  from  all  and  everything. 
It  was  curious  how  isolated  she  felt,  and  de- 
graded, and  ill  in  the  sunny  day,  among  the  gay 
promenaders. 

The  band  was  playing,  her  legs  trembled  under 
her,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  could  hardly  get  down 


118  BACCARAT 

to  the  sands.  But  the  children  were  waiting  for 
her,  expecting  her. 

She  looked  about  her  quickly,  nervously,  when 
she  got  out  of  the  hotel.  Of  course  he  was 
there,  watching  for  her.  She  did  not  know  she 
expected  him,  she  did  not  know  what  she  had 
expected.  But  he  rose  from  his  seat  on  the 
esplanade,  cool  in  his  grey  morning  clothes,  with 
his  Petit  Journal  and  his  cigarette.  He  smiled 
at  her  as  he  rose.  And  she  felt  suddenly  down 
her  back,  down  her  spine,  a  little  trickle  as  of  cold 
water,  a  fear  so  deadly  and  so  cold  that  she  stood 
as  one  paralysed. 

Leon  Diderot,  although  he  was  not  a  gentle- 
man, and  had  no  pretensions  to  the  title,  nor  even 
claimed  it,  was  very  much  a  man  of  the  world. 
He  had  travelled,  seen  many  people,  learnt  the 
shibboleths,  and  cultivated  the  outside  of  good 
manners. 

He  spoke  to  her  easily  enough  about  the 
weather,  he  told  her  of  the  fire  in  the  Casino 
at  Trouville  last  night,  he  related  the  latest  reve- 
lation in  the  Humbert  case;  only  his  eyes  spoke 


BACCARAT  119 

of  different  matters.  His  eyes  were  hateful;  it 
seemed  she  still  saw  the  red  in  them.  Presently, 
notwithstanding,  she  was  seated  by  his  side,  feel- 
ing numbed,  very  cold,  although  the  day  was  so 
warm,  and  answering  him  mechanically,  talking 
a  little,  eventually,  in  the  same  vein. 

"'We  will  defer  our  chat,  riest-ce  pas?"  he 
asked  presently,  when  the  band  left  off  playing, 
when  the  esplanade  began  to  empty,  when  it  was 
evident  that  Cabourg  was  about  to  lunch.  Now 
his  eyes  were  seeking  hers,  and  the  slow  colour 
mounted  painfully  into  her  cheeks.  "  There  are 
things  we  must  say  to  each  other,  is  it  not  so? 
I  am  at  Madame's  command,  completely,  abso- 
lutely. Paris,  Ostend,  it  is  not  too  late  for  Spa. 
But  it  is  to-morrow  the  mari  arrives,  to-day  we 
must  talk." 

She  saw  her  two  little  children,  with  their  nurse, 
come  up  from  the  sands.  She  could  almost  hear 
Genie  say,  "  Mumsey  never  came,  she  promised, 
but  she  never  came."  Perhaps  Jack  had  made  for 
her  a  seat  on  the  sands !  The  eyes  she  turned  on 
Leon  Diderot  were  piteous. 


120  BACCARAT 

"  My  children,  mes  chers  petits  bebes?"  she  said 
to  him.  Her  voice  had  tears  in  it. 

He  looked  away  from  her,  he  rolled  up  his 
cigarette  delicately. 

" Diable!"  he  said.  "Bring  them  with  you! 
I  want  you  to  be  happy,  comfortable.  They  will 
be  in  the  way,  but  as  Madame  wishes,  everything 
as  Madame  wishes." 

And  what  he  said  next,  almost  under  his  breath, 
made  the  scarlet  flush  bring  painful  tears.  She 
had  not  strength  to  hate  him;  it  was  herself  she 
hated,  loathed,  herself  that  was  so  horrible  to 
her. 

It  was  the  nightmare  she  was  living  over  again, 
as  she  lunched  with  him,  sitting  opposite  to  him, 
but  avoiding  his  eyes.  In  truth  her  misery,  the 
degradation  and  desperation  she  felt,  made  her 
speak  and  move  like  a  woman  in  a  dream.  Her 
pain  was  dull,  only  a  sudden  agony  shot  across 
her  now  and  again,  as  when  she  remembered,  for 
instance,  the  night  she  had  heard  voices  in  the 
room  next  to  hers.  She  had  gone  to  the  manager, 
and  said  she  could  not  sleep  next  those  people, 


BACCARAT  121 

their  talk  was  dreadful,  he  must  give  her  another 
apartment !  He  had  given  her  another  apartment. 
It  was  a  shoot  of  agony,  almost  physical,  when 
she  remembered,  when  she  wondered  if  the  people 
next  to  her.  .  .  . 

What  a  wearisome,  terrible  lunch!  When  he 
followed  her  upstairs  she  had  neither  strength  nor 
courage  to  oppose  him.  This  poor,  weak,  wicked 
Julie  was  like  a  wild  animal  in  a  trap,  the  spring 
had  caught  her. 

Afterwards  she  could  not  remember  what  he 
had  said  to  her.  When  he  went  out  of  the  room 
again,  he  left  her  shuddering,  and  very  cold.  All 
she  realised  was  that  she  must  leave  Cabourg  to- 
morrow, before  John  came.  She  must  write  to 
him.  But  ah!  how  difficult  that  was!  How 
long  she  sat  with  the  paper  before  her,  the  pen  in 
her  hand,  trying  to  write  to  John. 

All  the  afternoon  she  tried  to  write.  The  sun 
streamed  into  the  room,  and  one  little  pulse  in 
her  temple  beat — beat  so  that  she  could  not  think. 
Her  feet  were  so  cold,  her  hands  also,  although 
the  August  sun  streamed  into  the  room,  and  there 


122  BACCARAT 

was  no  breath  of  air.  The  pain  in  her  head  was 
almost  unbearable. 

The  children  came  in,  but  they  chattered,  and 
said  things  to  her  that  she  could  not  bear.  She 
caught  the  little  girl  in  her  arms  once,  passion- 
ately, swayed  with  her  to  and  fro  in  the  chair. 

"  Oh,  my  mignonne,  my  sweet,  my  darling. 
And  I  love  you  so.  Mumsey  loves  her  little 
daughter — and  her  Jack." 

Her  tears  streamed  down,  she  began  to  sob 
wildly.  It  was  Marie  who  suggested  she  should 
lie  down  on  the  bed  and  have  the  room  darkened, 
and  try  if  a  cup  of  tea  would  do  her  good.  Marie 
was  not  quite  ignorant  of  what  was  going  on,  of 
the  gossip  in  the  servants'  quarters  along  the  cor- 
ridor. 

The  tea  and  the  darkness,  and,  perhaps  that  fit 
of  sobbing,  did  her  good.  Towards  the  evening 
she  found  herself  more  composed,  and,  after 
Marie  had  put  the  children  to  bed,  and  persuaded 
her  mistress  to  a  bouillon  in  her  own  room,  she 
grew  quiet. 

"  I  will  sit  with  them  whilst  you  are  at  supper," 


BACCARAT  123 

said  this  poor  Julie.  "  Go  down,  for  once,  and  I 
will  sit  with  them." 

She  saw  them  sleeping  side  by  side  in  their 
cots,  she  scanned  their  flushed  and  sunburnt  faces. 
When  she  put  her  hand  to  her  eyes  to  get  rid  of 
the  tears  that  prevented  her  seeing  them,  "  At 
least,"  she  thought,  "  John  will  say  they  look 
well ;  he  will  not  think  they  have  been  neglected." 

She  knelt  presently  between  the  two  little  cots, 
not  to  pray,  she  did  not  feel  like  prayer,  but  to 
put  her  finger  into  Genie's  hand,  to  see  if  she 
would  clasp  it,  as  she  had  done  when  she  was  a 
newly  born  infant  lying  at  her  breast,  when  John 
had  stood  beside  them  both.  Neither  John  nor 
she  were  of  those  who  prayed;  but  that  once  he 
had  knelt  by  the  bedside,  even  as  she  was  kneeling 
now,  and  his  face  had  been  hidden,  and  she  knew 
a  sob  had  escaped  him,  because  the  bed  shook. 
She  had  put  a  weak  hand  on  his  head.  She  had 
been  very  ill  when  Genie  was  born,  and  there  had 
been  fear  that  John  would  lose  both  wife  and 
baby  daughter. 

"  Little  flushed  darling !"    The  little  girl  moved 


124  BACCARAT 

in  her  sleep,  and  .  .  .  Yes !  Ah !  Julie  was  glad 
in  her  heart  when  the  baby  fist  closed  on  her 
finger.  "  Genie  wasn't  angry  with  Mumsey ;" 
she  clasped  tight  the  finger,  and  opened  her  eyes 
in  her  sleep,  and  rolled  round  again,  all  curled 
up,  like  a  baby  animal,  but  still  clasping  Mumsey's 
finger. 

"  She  is  so  loving,  the  little  sweet !  She  will 
climb  on  his  knee,  and  snuggle  her  head  against 
his  coat,  and  comfort  him.  But  I  shan't  be  there 
to  see  ...  I  shan't  be  there  to  see !" 

Oh!  how  she  cried  as  she  knelt  between  the 
cots,  and  knew  she  would  not  be  there  to  see 
John  with  her  children  on  his  knee.  Jack,  too! 
how  sturdy  and  fine  he  was.  He  had  kicked  off 
the  bedclothes;  she  kissed  the  brown  leg  lying 
in  the  other  cot.  She  left  it  wet  with  her  tears. 
How  like  John  he  was  as  he  slept;  how  she 
longed  for  John! 

Her  heart  was  aching,  and  aching  unbearably, 
with  longing. 

No !  she  said  no  prayer  for  them  as  she  sat  in 
the  darkened  nursery  listening  to  their  breathing, 


BACCARAT  125 

knowing  it  was  for  the  last  time.  Unless  love  is 
prayer,  and  repentance  is  prayer,  and  misery  and 
all  most  poignant  feeling  are  prayer,  she  said 
none. 

When  Marie  returned,  Julie  went  quietly  from 
the  room.  But  first  she  kissed  them  each  again, 
more  than  once,  on  their  warm  brown  cheeks. 
Genie  stirred  and  almost  awoke,  instinct  seemed 
as  if  it  would  wake  her,  would  tell  her  how  her 
poor  Mumsey  longed  that  once,  just  once  more, 
she  would  fling  those  loving  baby  arms  around 
her  neck,  and  say  her  baby  words,  "  Genie  loves 
Mumsey,  Genie  loves  her  pretty  Mumsey."  But 
it  was  not  so,  she  slept  on!  And  Jack  slept 
soundly. 

She  wrote  to  John  after  she  had  left  the  chil- 
dren. 

"  Dear,  dear  husband.  How  can  I  tell  you  how 
bad  I  am?  .  .  .  you  would  not  believe  it.  And  I 
could  not  see  your  eyes,  your  face  that  I  love,  and 
tell  you.  Genie  will  comfort  you.  Darling  hus- 
band, never  tell  her.  I  beg  you  let  her  think 
always  I  was  her  '  good  sweet  Mumsey.'  She 


126  BACCARAT 

called  me  that  to-day.  I  don't  know  how  it  all 
happened.  You  know  I  never  meant  to  be  so 
wicked  .  .  .  you  will  know  that,  darling.  Oh! 
how  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  and  the  children,  and 
all  my  happy  life  with  you.  I  wish  I  were  dead, 
I  wish  I  had  died  when  Genie  was  born,  and  you 
knelt  down  by  the  bed,  and  I  think  you  cried  be- 
cause we  were  safe.  Do  you  remember?  Now 
you  will  wish  I  had  died  then.  No!  I  don't  think 
you  will,  you  won't  even  hate  me.  I  know  you 
love  me.  You  will  be  sorry,  sorry  all  the  time, 
and  you  will  miss  me  when  you  come  home  of  an 
evening,  and  you  will  be  lonely  while  you  dress, 
and  I  am  not  there  to  chatter  to  you.  But  oh!  my 
darling,  darling,  you  won't  be  so  lonely,  so  un- 
happy as  I.  The  children  will  run  in  to  you,  and 
their  voices  will  fill  the  house,  and  they  will 
clamber  about  you,  and  I  shall  have  nothing, 
nothing,  all  because  of  what  I  have  done.  You 
won't  think  of  me  unkindly,  will  you?  You  will 
say,  '  that  poor  Julie,3  that  '  poor'  that  '  was  my 
wife,'  and  Genie  will  kiss  your  eyelids  softly,  and 
you  will  forget.  Only  I  shall  never  forget  my 


BACCARAT  127 

happy  life,  and  my  children,  and  my  husband  that 
Hove.  .  .  !' 

She  could  not  write  any  more. 

She  packed  her  things,  tears  falling  amongst 
them  all  the  while  she  packed.  To-morrow  she 
would  go  away,  early,  before  John  came. 

Leon  Diderot  behaved  quite  well,  quite  con- 
siderately. He  met  her  only  at  the  station;  the 
luggage  was  already  there.  She  had  not  seen  the 
children  again;  it  was  the  early  train  to  Paris 
they  were  taking,  and  she  had  told  Marie  she  was 
not  to  be  disturbed.  The  story  was  all  over  the 
hotel,  but  there  were  few  curious  eyes  open  at 
this  time  in  the  morning. 

In  the  train  Diderot  talked  to  her  about  last 
night's  play.  The  bank  had  had  phenomenal  good 
fortune,  it  was  fortunate,  most  fortunate  she  was 
not  playing.  He  rolled  his  cigarette,  and  talked. 
She  did  not  hate  him.  All  her  mind  and  heart 
were  with  her  children,  and  with  John  when  he 
should  get  her  letter.  And  the  pain  in  her  head 
and  in  her  heart  were  as  one. 


CHAPTER   VII 

JOHN  COURTNEY  arrived  at  Cabourg  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  Julie  had 
left.  He  had  travelled  all  night,  and  caught  easily 
the  connecting  boat  between  Havre  and  Trouville. 
It  is  possible  he  was  disappointed  at  not  seeing 
her  awaiting  him  at  the  landing-stage,  she  could 
easily  have  learnt  the  time  of  the  arrival  of  the 
boat,  he  thought.  It  was  absurd  to  feel  any  vague 
uneasiness  or  disappointment  that  she  was  not 
at  Trouville  station.  She  was  not  used  to  travel- 
ling alone,  and  Trouville  might  have  seemed  quite 
a  journey  to  her.  In  a  year  or  two,  perhaps,  when 
Jack  was  a  bit  bigger,  that  sturdy  young  Jack 
of  hers,  she  would  be  satisfied  to  trust  herself 
to  his  escort.  John  smiled  somewhat  tenderly,  all 
to  himself  in  the  train,  when  he  recognised  he 
was  not  quite  sorry  that  up  to  now  she  had  felt 
herself  safe  nowhere  without  her  husband's  escort. 

But,  at  Cabourg,  where  he  had  his  head,  and 
half  his  body,  out  of  the  window  at  least  three 

128 


BACCARAT  129 

minutes  before  the  train  stopped,  when  there  was 
no  sign  of  her,  or  the  children,  or  even  Marie  with 
an  explanation,  there  is  no  doubt  his  heart  sank. 
Why,  even  when  they  had  been  separated  but  a 
day,  when  he  had  gone  to  Rochester,  or  to  Chat- 
ham, she  had  met  him  at  Southampton  station 
with  eager  welcoming,  full  of  the  day's  news,  the 
night's  loneliness,  the  gladness  of  his  return.  And 
now  it  was  a  fortnight  since  they  had  met ! 

There  was  no  one  from  the  Grand  Hotel  de 
Cabourg  on  the  platform;  not  Julie,  not  Marie, 
nor  the  children.  A  couple  of  Frenchmen  got 
out  of  the  train,  also  an  owurier  with  his  wife,  and 
a  little  boy ;  these  were  on  the  platform,  but,  for 
the  rest,  the  station  was  empty. 

The  omnibus  from  the  Grand  Hotel  was  wait- 
ing outside.  He  could  not  ask  the  porter,  al- 
though he  wore  on  his  cap  the  legend,  "  Grand 
Hotel  de  Cabourg"  if  everything  was  all  right. 
It  was  astonishing  how  his  heart  had  failed  him, 
how  heavy  it  was,  what  a  presentiment  of  trouble 
he  had  already. 

The  two  Frenchmen  who  had  been  in  the  train 

9 


130  BACCARAT 

got  into  the  omnibus  with  him.  It  seemed  they 
had  gone  to  Trouville  on  a  locomobile,  there  had 
been  a  breakdown,  and  they  had  had  to  take  the 
train.  John  was  glad  to  listen  to  them  talking, 
it  would  make  the  way  shorter  while  that  lumber- 
ing omnibus  jolted  up  the  narrow  street.  But  a 
sentence  that  leaped  from  the  lips  of  the  Baron 
d'Avril — for,  of  course,  it  was  the  Baron  d'Avril 
— startled  him,  and  arrested  his  attention  com- 
pletely. 

"  It  is  lucky  it  was  not  by  locomobile  that  the 
jolie  Anglaise  and  the  Belgian  started  to  go  to 
Paris.  They  might  have  encountered  the  mari  on 
the  road,  the  mari  who  was  to  arrive  this  after- 
noon, and  whom  it  would  perhaps  be  amusing  to 
watch."  Then  he  told  his  companion  the  story 
of  what  he  had  seen  a  few  days  previously  in  the 
corridor.  Told  it  as  he  had  translated  it.  It  lost 
nothing  through  the  fact  that  the  Baron  d'Avril 
had  thought  Julie  pretty  and  fascinating  when  he 
had  driven  her  from  the  races,  and  had  come  back 
to  find  that  she  had  forgotten  to  be  pretty  and 
fascinating  to  him. 


BACCARAT  131 

John,  though  he  believed  nothing,  and  under- 
stood only  half,  and  knew  it  could  not  be  his  Julie 
of  whom  they  were  talking,  yet  went  suddenly 
grey  round  the  lips.  Although  his  mouth  was  so 
firmly  set  and  rigid,  yet  his  lips  were  white  and 
his  face  was  grey. 

If  he  had  been  the  English  husband  of  the  lady 
of  whom  they  were  talking  they  would  not  have 
found  it  amusing  to  watch  him,  for  he  would  have 
shown  nothing. 

Curious  looks,  sympathetic  looks,  cynical  looks 
he  met,  as  he  stood  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel; 
whispers  and  shrugs  and  stares.  But  he  was  not 
amusing,  this  English  husband! 

Monsieur  Charles  came  forward ;  he  knew  who 
it  was,  and  was  ready  with  explanations,  with 
shrugs,  with  sympathy,  with  anything  that  would 
be  welcome. 

John  briefly  said  the  porter  need  not  take  up 
his  things. 

Dieu!  How  stiff  he  was  and  cold,  it  was  no 
wonder  that  Madame  had  fled  from  him.  But 
with  Monsieur  Diderot!  That  was  drole! 


132  BACCARAT 

The  Baron  d'Avril,  who  realised  now  that  it 
was  he  who  had  told,  by  his  incautious  conver- 
sation, this  English  husband  what  had  become  of 
his  wife,  was  ready  to  apologise  for  what  he  had 
done.  But  John  was  unapproachable  as  he  stood 
in  the  hall  of  the  hotel  and  listened,  still  without 
a  word,  to  what  the  manager  should  tell  him.  He 
could  not  know  the  little  feeling  of  malice,  of 
hurt  vanity,  that  led  the  Baron  d'Avril  to  be  so 
interested  in  watching  how  he  took  the  news. 

"  Madame  had  left  a  note  for  Monsieur — the 
bonne  had  it ;  should  he  call  the  bonne  downstairs 
to  Monsieur?"  asked  Monsieur  Charles. 

No ;  John  would  go  up. 

When  he  was  in  the  children's  room,  and 
Genie  had  climbed  on  his  knee,  and  Jack  stood 
sturdily  before  him,  both  of  them  looking  so  sun- 
burnt and  well,  it  was  indeed  as  she  had  thought. 
He  saw  they  had  not  been  neglected,  he  saw  they 
looked  sunburnt  and  well;  he  was  glad  in  their 
well  being. 

With  Genie  on  his  knee  and  his  arm  around 
her,  with  her  curly  little  head  nestling  against  his 


BACCARAT  133 

shoulder,  he  read  his  wife's  letter,  which  Marie 
handed  to  him  so  silently.  He  read  it  very  cur- 
sorily. He  was  to  read  it  many  times  again,  and 
get  all  the  comfort  he  could  from  the  love  in  it. 
Just  now  he  read  it  only  cursorily.  Notwithstand- 
ing that  he  was  half  stunned  by  his  sudden  trouble, 
and  he  had  been  travelling  all  night,  notwith- 
standing that  he  had  had  little  food  since  yester- 
day, and  was  in  bad  trim  for  thinking,  his  mind 
was  quite  made  up,  had  been  already  made  up, 
possibly,  when  in  the  omnibus  he  heard  the  two 
Frenchmen  laugh  and  befoul  his  wife  with  their 
words. 

He  sent  the  children  out  of  the  room,  telling 
them  to  run  away  and  play.  He  had  no  need 
then  to  question  Marie.  Marie,  who  loved  her 
mistress,  and  had  the  national  tolerance  for  moral 
lapses,  told  him  volubly,  immediately,  all  that  she 
thought  he  should  hear. 

She  told  him  how  Madame  had  played,  and  had 
lost  large  sums  of  money,  and  had  suffered  be- 
cause of  what  Monsieur  might  say,  and  of  how 
she  had  cried,  and  cried,  on  Sunday,  poor  lady, 


134  BACCARAT 

and  sat  with  her  children  and  rocked  them  in  her 
arms,  and  cried  again.  Ce  Monsieur  Diderot,  par 
exemple.  .  .  . 

But  that  John  waved  away;  to  that  he  would 
not  listen. 

He  thought  he  had  at  once  the  clue,  the  expla- 
nation, the  story  of  her  flight.  She  had  played 
baccarat  after  he  had  written  her  not  to  do  so. 
She  had  lost  money,  she — she  had  been  frightened 
to  face  him.  That  was  terrible  to  him.  How 
harsh  he  must  have  been,  how  unreasonable  some- 
times, that  she  should  be  frightened  to  face  him. 
He  knew  he  had  a  bad  temper,  was  rough,  and 
not  always  able  to  say  the  tender  things  he 
meant. 

And  so  she  had  not  realised  how  much  he 
cared  for  her.  She  was  frightened  of  his  intol- 
erance, his  temper.  She  was  so  young;  the 
gambling  was  in  her  blood.  Did  she  really  think 
he  would  go  back  to  Southampton  without  her, 
keep  her  children  to  comfort  him,  and  leave  her 
in  the  cold?  Miss  her?  Why,  the  home,  the 
days,  the  life,  without  her  smiles  and  welcome, 


BACCARAT  135 

would  be  impossible;  he  could  not,  would  not 
face  them  lonely.  When  his  little  girl  was  in  his 
arms,  and  his  son  stood  before  him,  neither  of 
them  had  he  seen  as  clearly  as  his  poor  Julie  sit- 
ting by  their  cots  last  night  in  the  dark.  Oh! 
why  had  he  not  come  one  day  sooner? 

He  wasted  little  time  after  he  had  heard  all 
that  Marie  could  tell  him.  He  went  downstairs 
again,  rejecting  all  sympathy,  all  that  the  curious 
Maitre  d'Hotel  or  head  waiter  would  have  told 
him,  when  they  took  his  order,  as  he  sat  at  the 
empty  table  d'hote  making  a  meal  that  was  a 
necessity,  meanwhile  making  also  his  plans.  He 
wanted  to  hear  nothing.  He  asked  the  time  of 
the  afternoon  train  to  Paris.  He  heard  without 
wincing  the  confidence  that  it  was  to  the  Hotel 
Terminus  they  had  gone. 

His  poor  little  Julie !  How  plainly  he  saw  her, 
sitting  crying  by  her  children,  because  she  had 
lost  so  much  money,  and  she  dared  not  wait  to 
tell  him.  The  rest  he  pushed  from  his  mind. 
There  was  love — love  for  him,  and  him  alone,  in 
that  letter.  Already  he  had  it  open  again : 


136  BACCARAT 

"  Darling,  darling!  you  won't  be  so  lonely,  so 
unhappy  as  I" 

He  was  not  going  to  let  her  be  lonely  and  un- 
happy. Why  should  he?  She  belonged  to  him, 
the  contract  between  them  was  for  life.  He 
would  follow  her,  and  take  her  back  with  him  to 
Southampton.  Poor  child!  he  must  school  his 
lips  to  tender  words,  he  must  make  her  not  afraid 
of  him.  She  could  not  have  lost  so  much,  and 
now  he  was  well  off.  But  if  it  cost  him  all  he 
had.  .  .  . 

The  fever  and  obsession  of  gambling  which 
John  had  forgotten,  which  personally  he  had 
never  known,  came  suddenly  to  his  consciousness 
as  he  sat  eating  the  food  which  was  necessary, 
but  which  had  no  flavour. 

He  was  following  her  with  his  mind,  going 
back  with  her  through  the  days.  He  had  seen 
the  hold  this  gambling  had  had  upon  her  father. 
Why  had  he  not  remembered  before?  How  he 
blamed  himself  that  he  had  exposed  her  to  this 
temptation,  that  he  had  left  her  unguarded,  just 
when  she  needed  guardianship. 


BACCARAT  137 

It  was  only  the  gambling  John  saw.  To  any- 
thing and  everything  else  he  shut  his  eyes.  He 
knew  his  wife  loved  him. 

He  began  re-reading  her  letter  in  the  train  to 
Paris.  He  read  it  many  times  in  the  days  that 
followed. 

He  found  them  at  the  Hotel  Terminus. 

There  was  no  disguise  or  difficulty  about  it. 
Once  he  had  brought  himself  to  realise  that 
"Madame  Diderot"  meant  his  poor  Julie,  every 
word  of  whose  letter  to  him  was  aching  in  his 
heart,  the  rest  was  easy. 

"  Monsieur  desire-t-il  les  voir?" 

Monsieur,  with  dry  lips  and  beating  heart,  said 
that  he  wished  to  see  the  lady,  two  minutes'  con- 
versation would  be  sufficient. 

"  But  it  was  so  late !" 

Monsieur  enforced  his  wishes  with  an  English 
sovereign,  and  the  curious  face  and  gold-braided 
hat  melted  from  his  sight.  But  the  time  before 
it  was  there  again  seemed  interminable  to  the 
man  whose  overwhelming  impatience  beat,  and 
throbbed,  and  happily  stunned  a  little  his  imagina- 
tion. 


138  BACCARAT 

The  porter  returned,  more  eager,  more  curious, 
shrugging,  voluble,  confiding,  hoping  to  be  con- 
fided in. 

"  Monsieur  et  Madame"  had  arrived  some 
hours  before.  "  They  had  arrived  together,  but" 
.  .  .  the  gesticulation  conveyed  sympathy.  .  .  . 

It  appeared  that  Madame  had  been  taken  ill  in 
the  train.  It  was  not  himself,  it  was  a  subordi- 
nate who  had  received  them;  poor  lady!  She 
was  helped  from  the  fiacre,  she  looked.  .  .  .  Ah ! 
she  looked  so  white,  so  pale,  they  all  thought  she 
would  die.  Monsieur  had  been  impatient,  quickly 
they  had  sent  for  a  doctor.  He  had  been  with 
her,  and  yet  again.  A  garde  malade  had  been 
summoned,  was  with  her  now.  Madame  was  very 
ill,  the  proprietaire  was  perturbed,  there  was  talk 
of  I'Hopital,  but  that  was  for  to-morrow.  To- 
night the  Sceur  sat  up  with  her,  but  she  talk,  she 
rave.  Ah !  how  she  rave !  No  one  could  see  her, 
the  garde  malade  had  said  it.  Monsieur  could 
hear  her,  if  he  pleased,  even  through  the  closed 
door  of  her  room. 

Was  no  one,  then,  with  her  but  the  Saur? 


They  had  sent  for  a  doctor.     He  had  been  with  her,  and  yet  again 


BACCARAT  139 

He  could  not  ask  the  other  question,  for  the 
answer  to  which  he  nevertheless  waited. 

She  was  alone  but  for  the  Sceur.  Ce  Monsieur 
Diderot  was  in  Numero  27.  He  had  retired,  it 
was  a  long  time.  Should  he  awaken  him? 

"  Certainly  not.  Which  is  Madame's  room  ?" 
he  asked  abruptly. 

The  sovereign  was  potent.  John  had  the  privi- 
lege of  listening  to  a  delirium  that  came  muffled 
through  the  door,  to  the  sound  of  groans,  and 
some  quiet  soothing  note  that  alternated  with 
these. 

"  Could  he  retain  the  room  adjoining?" 

Ah!  but  he  would  be  disturbed!  They  had 
offered  Monsieur  Diderot  that  room,  and  Mon- 
sieur Diderot  had  said.  .  .  . 

"  Monsieur  Diderot  could  be  damned  and 
blasted  to  hell!" 

The  bloodshot  eyes  and  sudden  passion-tortured 
voice  raised  the  curiosity  of  Monsieur  le  Con- 
cierge to  boiling  pitch. 

But  he  suspected,  already  everybody  in  the 
hotel  suspected,  and  were  on  the  tiptoe  of  excite- 


140  BACCARAT 

ment  for  the  denouement.  It  was,  it  must  be,  an 
elopement.  This  was  Monsieur  le  man  in  pursuit ! 
There  would  be  a  murder,  a  duel !  He  would  kill 
his  wife,  he  would  shoot  Monsieur  Diderot.  Ah ! 
what  excitement,  what  distraction  for  the  Hotel 
Terminus !  Monsieur  le  proprietaire  must  be  al- 
lowed to  sleep  peacefully.  To-morrow  it  would 
be  time  to  tell  him.  But  to-night  they  would 
watch,  when  with  his  knife  or  his  pistol  Monsieur 
le  mari  should  crawl  into  her  room.  This  Eng- 
lishman with  his  bloodshot  eyes,  Monsieur  Paul 
the  porter,  or  Monsieur  Charles  the  boots,  would 
be  behind  him,  would  seize  his  arm  and  say  Ar- 
retez-vous,  and  .  .  . 

The  men,  and  the  two  chambermaids,  who  were 
still  up,  were  quite  intoxicated  with  the  thought 
of  the  drama  they  would  witness,  the  publicity 
that  would  attend  them,  all  the  excitement  that 
was  in  store. 

John  had  the  room  he  craved,  where  the  privi- 
lege of  listening  to  the  sick  woman's  ravings 
would  be  his  throughout  the  night.  He  was  be- 
wildered with  the  attention  the  whole  waking 


BACCARAT  141 

establishment  lavished  upon  him.  They  came  in 
one  by  one,  on  this  pretext  or  the  other,  to  make 
his  bed,  to  take  away  his  boots,  to  offer  him  un 
petit  souper  or  a  cognac,  or  what  he  would  have 
after  his  journey,  to  stare  at  him,  and  note  his 
abstraction,  and  the  listening  look  that  had  come 
into  those  strained  bloodshot  eyes. 

But  he  got  rid  of  them  all  at  last,  and  locked 
his  door,  and  was  alone  to  listen,  and  walk  up 
and  down,  and  read  and  re-read  his  letter,  and 
wait  for  the  morning,  with  what  patience  he  could 
muster. 

Once  in  that  long  nightmare  of  a  night,  when 
the  moaning  in  the  next  room  was  more  than  he 
could  bear,  he  suddenly  decided  he  would  go  in. 
It  was  his  wife's  room,  his  room!  He  could 
soothe,  he  knew  he  could  soothe  her,  better  than 
the  French  nun !  He  unbolted  his  door.  He  had 
meant  to  have  waited  for  the  morning,  to  have — 
have  established  his  right,  to  have  stamped  on  the 
head  of  that  reptile,  kicked  him  out  of  the  path. 
But  she  moaned  and  moaned. 

When  he  opened  the  door,  he  was  conscious  of 


142  BACCARAT 

the  gold-braided  cap,  of  the  curious  face,  of  the 
obsequious,  intrusive,  "  Can  I  get  you  anything, 
saire;  is  there  anything  Monsieur  needs?" 

He  banged  the  door  to  again.  The  conscious- 
ness of  his  position  stung  him,  made  his  blood 
boil,  and  surge  even  into  his  flushing  face  and 
eyes. 

And  yet  he  knew  he  wanted  his  self-possession, 
all  his  wits  and  self-possession.  He  had  her  to 
save,  and  in  more  ways  than  one.  It  must  be 
made  clear,  the  reason  of  this  hurried  journey. 
He  must,  if  needs  be,  make  terms  with  this 
scoundrel,  this  Diderot.  He  had  his  letter  of 
credit  with  him,  only  he  must  make  no  false  move. 
It  was  not  only  Julie,  but  Julie's  name  that  must 
be  saved.  It  was  essential  that  he  should  act 
warily.  He  even  undressed,  and  lay  down  in  his 
bed,  hoping  exhaustion  would  bring  him  sleep, 
and  sleep  strength,  subtlety  and  courage,  so 
anxious  was  he  that,  when  he  had  to  act,  it  should 
be  with  clearness  and  precision. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE  news  of  the  arrival  of  Julie's  husband  was 
brought  to  Monsieur  Diderot  in  the  morning  with 
his  cafe.  His  first  emotion  was  of  relief ! 

Monsieur  Diderot,  the  professional  gambler, 
was  altogether  put  out  and  distracted  by  the  posi- 
tion in  which  he  found  himself.  He  had  been  car- 
ried away  by  his  dream  when  he  had  left  Cabourg 
for  Paris  with  Julie  Courtney.  He  had  all  a 
gambler's  superstition;  he  had  won,  won,  won, 
since  he  had  been  at  Cabourg.  Julie  brought  him 
luck,  and  would  bring  him  more.  It  had  mounted 
to  his  head  a  little  that  she  had  consented  so 
readily  to  join  her  fortunes  with  his. 

But  in  the  train  she  had  become  suddenly  ill, 
she  had  seemed  not  to  know  where  she  was. 

When  the  train  stopped  he  had  ordered  cognac 
for  her,  but  it  had  done  no  good.  She  had  grown 
worse  and  worse,  she  had  become  pale,  faint,  and 
had  talked  as  if  in  fever.  By  the  time  they  got  to 

143 


144  BACCARAT 

the  Gare  St.  Lazare  she  was  half  unconscious, 
and  had  to  be  lifted  from  the  train. 

He  was  distracted.  The  doctor,  hastily  sum- 
moned to  the  hotel,  had  told  him  she  was  ill, 
very  ill,  the  fever  high,  it  was  impossible,  now  she 
was  here,  that  she  could  be  moved!  //  she  got 
well — there  was  an  "if"  it  seemed — it  would  not 
be  for  a  long  time,  a  very  long  time.  He  must 
have  a  nurse,  perhaps  two ! 

Ah !  it  was  terrible  for  Monsieur  Diderot,  who 
had  his  living  to  get,  and  had  not  been  used  to 
spend  money,  except  upon  himself! 

He,  no  less  than  John,  had  slept  uneasily;  he 
was  all  distracted.  What  should  he  do?  He 
could  not  stay  in  Paris  during  August !  At  Spa, 
Boulogne,  Wimereux,  he  could  have  remained, 
but  Paris  in  August ! 

Must  he  then  leave  her  to  live  or  to  die,  alone, 
in  this  hotel,  his  mascotte,  the  pretty  ingenue  who 
had  fled  with  him  ?  The  idea  distracted  him  .  .  . 
and  then  there  was  the  expense ! 

It  was  all  very  unfortunate  for  Leon  Diderot, 
and  he  slept  ill.  That  is,  at  least,  he  went  to  bed 


BACCARAT  145 

before  his  usual  hour,  for  what  can  one  do  in 
Paris  in  August?  and  he  awoke  miserably  early. 

And  now  he  heard  Monsieur  le  mari  was  here, 
and  wished  to  speak  with  him.  He  had  no  fear 
of  a  scene,  what  had  he  to  lose?  And  for  shoot- 
ing, as  that  gargon  stupide  had  suggested  .  .  . 
well!  he  also  carried  a  weapon.  And  for  brute 
force — for  of  anything  these  Englanders  were 
capable,  Jean  declared — Jean  himself  might  re- 
main outside  the  door,  and  Jules  too,  and  they 
could  rush  in  if  he  called. 

The  key  was  taken  out  of  the  door ;  Jean  and 
Jules  were  stationed  outside.  Then,  and  then 
only,  was  John  Courtney  shown  into  the  bed- 
room, all  gilt  and  mirror,  red  plush  and  incon- 
gruity, where  Leon  Diderot,  in  velvet  coat  and 
with  the  inevitable  cigarette,  awaited  his  coming 
with  calm. 

Monsieur  le  mari  was  bigger  than  Diderot  had 
anticipated.  His  eyes  were  somewhat  bloodshot, 
nevertheless  he  looked  quiet,  commonplace.  Bah ! 
but  he  knew  nothing,  this  husband.  .  .  , 

"  Monsieur  Diderot?" 

10 


146  BACCARAT 

Monsieur  Diderot  was  not  to  be  outdone  in 
courtesy.  He  had  meant  to  keep  his  seat,  but 
now  he  rose  and  bowed. 

At  the  sight  of  him  bowing,  smiling  there,  at 
the  thought  of  what  he  was,  and  had  done  to 
him,  John's  gorge  rose.  He  forgot  how  he  had 
meant  to  behave,  what  he  had  meant  to  say.  He 
felt  sick,  physically  and  mentally  he  swerved  a 
moment  from  his  balance;  the  flush  under  his 
grey  skin  was  painful. 

With  a  wave  of  his  hand  (John  noted  the 
tobacco-stained  fingers)  Leon  indicated  a  chair 
for  his  visitor. 

So  he  was  afraid,  this  Englishman,  he  trem- 
bled, his  lips  were  pale.  Tiens!  for  what  then 
had  he  come? 

"  Monsieur  does  not  object  to  smoke?"  he 
asked,  perhaps  a  little  more  insolently,  seeing 
that  John  accepted  the  proffered  seat,  was 
breathing  a  little  quickly,  and  was  not  at  ease  as 
his  first  words,  and  his  coming,  had  implied. 
Leon  replaced  his  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  puffing 
at  it  delicately,  deliberately. 


BACCARAT  147 

Still  John's  emotion  held  him,  and  for  all  he 
had  meant  to  say,  his  tongue  was  tied.  But  his 
fingers  were  tingling,  his  eyes  bloodshot.  All 
night  he  had  heard  her  moaning,  all  night  it  had 
maddened  his  ears.  And  this  was  the  man! 

Diderot  went  on,  suavely: 

"  Monsieur  has  perhaps  but  just  arrived  .  .  . 
la  rtier;  it  had  been  rough  in  the  Channel,  per- 
haps ?  Ah !  le  mal  de  mer!  it  was  horrible,  for 
himself,  he  was  not  affected,  but " 

"Fool!"  burst  from  John's  lips.  "Fool!" 
He  rose  to  his  feet,  swaying  on  them  a  little.  For 
that  was  not  how  he  had  meant  to  begin,  what  he 
had  meant  to  say. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  muttered,  "  wait." 

It  was  to  himself  he  was  speaking.  Leon  had 
slunk  smaller,  his  lips  grown  a  thinner  line. 
There  was  a  moment's  pause,  the  room  with  its 
plush  and  ormolu,  its  tarnished  tawdriness,  its 
flyblown  lustre  ornaments,  its  gimcrack  furniture 
and  shabby  carpet,  reminded  Julie's  husband 
where  he  was,  for  what  he  had  come. 

Leon  had  seen  the  red  gleam  in  John's  eyes, 


148  BACCARAT 

the  tense  muscles  of  his  hands,  heard  the  husky 
note  in  his  voice,  and  for  an  instant  he  forgot 
that  Jean  and  Jules  were  at  hand,  that  he  had 
nothing  to  fear. 

Then  John  pulled  himself  together.  The  agon- 
ising desire  which  awoke  in  him  at  the  sight 
of  the  smirking  Belgian,  with  his  waxed  mous- 
tache and  stained  fingers,  and  hard  cynic  eyes, 
for  physical  vengeance,  the  desire,  the  necessity 
almost,  to  seize,  strangle,  beat  the  viperous  head 
against  the  floor,  was  a  force  with  which  he  had 
not  reckoned.  It  had  carried  him  off  his  feet, 
shaken  him  out  of  calm  and  reason,  dehumanised 
him  for  the  time  it  lasted. 

The  phase  passed,  leaving  him  still  shaken. 
Now  it  was  himself,  not  Leon  Diderot,  with 
whom  he  had  to  reckon.  But  he  had  his  wife 
to  save,  it  was  not  of  himself,  of  what  the 
man  had  done  to  him,  that  he  must  dare  to 
think.  John  had  thought  it  all  over,  he  had 
decided  to  keep  calm.  And  this  .  .  .  this  was 
how  he  would  do  it!  He  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. Mechanically  now  the  words  upon  which 


BACCARAT  149 

he  had  decided  came  to  his  lips;  the  danger  was 
past. 

To  Leon  the  hot  day  had  turned  chill,  he  still 
rolled  his  cigarette,  but  his  fingers  were  unsteady. 
He  moistened  his  thin  lips  with  his  narrow 
tongue,  for  they  had  suddenly  grown  dry. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  John  stiffly,  as  he 
steadied  himself;  he  remembered  he  had  called 
the  man  a  fool.  He  was  a  fool  not  to  have 
known  he  stared  at  death  those  few  seconds. 
But  now  John  said : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  Monsieur  was  faint  ...  a  glass  of  wine?" 
Leon  recovered  himself  even  more  quickly  than 
the  Englishman,  but  fear  had  shaken  him,  his 
voice  had  not  yet  returned  in  volume. 

"  I'm  here  on  business.    I  am  John  Courtney." 

Again  Leon  bowed,  interrogatively. 

"  You  met  my  wife  at  Cabourg?" 

Leon  raised  his  eyes,  now  they  were  narrowed 
and  watching,  as  they  had  watched  when  he  had 
been  croupier.  He  had  seen  even  Englishmen 
cheat. 


150  BACCARAT 

"At  Cabourg?    Yes!  at  Cabourg,  of  course." 

"  She  played  baccarat." 

"  Un  pen,  perhaps.  Madame  was  not  what  you 
call  plongeuse" 

"  She  had  not  enough  money  with  her  to  go  on 
with." 

"  Monsieur  has  been  well  informed,  it  appears." 

"  You  assisted  her." 

"  If  it  were  so,  I  am  proud." 

Notwithstanding  those  shaky  fingers  of  his, 
Leon  Diderot  imitated  sufficiently  well  the 
class  with  whom  he  wished  to  assimilate  him- 
self. 

It  was  a  lesson  he  was  being  taught,  it  was  a 
dictation  that  was  being  given  him.  Well.  .  .  . 

"  Then  she  wanted  to  go  back." 

"  She  desired  to  leave  Cabourg,"  Leon  re- 
peated. 

"  To  return  to  me,  to  ...  to  tell  me  what  she 
had  lost;  to  get  the  money." 

"  Monsieur  knows  best." 

"  You  travelled  with  her  as  far  as  here?" 

"  Monsieur  has  said  it." 


BACCARAT  151 

"  Well !  your  work's  done.  I'm  here  to  look 
after  her;  you  can  get  back." 

John's  self-control  was  the  effort  of  his  life- 
time. Knowing  as  little  as  he  did,  putting  it 
away,  believing  nothing,  yet  his  throat  choked, 
his  hands  ached,  his  eyes  ached,  with  the  desire 
to  seize  hold  of  the  mountebank,  whose  name  had 
been  connected  with  his  Julie's,  to  strangle  him, 
to  knock  his  head  against  the  wall,  to  crush  the 
lying  degraded  life  out  of  him.  "  You  can  get 
back,"  repeated  John. 

"  That  must  be  as  Madame  wishes,"  Leon  said, 
and  gave  a  twist  to  his  moustache.  He  put  on 
the  air  of  a  gallant  in  his  ignorance  of  what 
underlay  John's  calm.  He  learnt  it  quickly. 

John's  control  gave  way  abruptly.  He  caught 
hold  of  the  man  who  dared  to  have  the  air  of  a 
gallant  when  he  spoke  of  her,  of  John  Courtney's 
wife. 

"  You  will,  will  you,  damn  you !"  He  shook 
him  violently,  while  the  veins  in  his  forehead 
swelled.  The  squeak  Leon  gave  was  like  a 
mouse's  squeak.  The  men  he  thought  were  out- 


152  BACCARAT 

side  had  been  called  to  their  duties,  and,  when  he 
realised  this,  when  he  called  out  again  and  no 
one  entered,  he  went  yellow  and  livid  with  fright, 
so  limp  and  so  abject,  and  so  resistless,  that  John's 
rage  died  as  suddenly  as  it  had  flamed  up. 

Again  he  remembered  what  was  at  stake. 

"  Keep  her  name  off  your  tongue,  that's  all, 
unless  you  want  to  be  shot  out  of  the  window. 
It's  with  me  you've  got  to  deal  this  time;  not 
with  a  woman.  You — you  cur." 

"  Monsieur — Monsieur  will  fight" 

"  Fight  ff 

The  contempt  in  John's  voice  was  reflected  in 
his  action.  "  I  could  shake  the  life  out  of  you, 
you  rat ;  a  lot  of  fight  you've  got  in  you !"  But 
the  mere  slight  exercise  of  his  strength,  of  hold- 
ing the  creature  and  shaking  him,  and  seeing  his 
colour  turn,  gave  John  back  his  self-possession. 
He  flung  him  into  the  corner,  as  if  he  had  been 
indeed  the  rodent  of  which  he  spoke. 

"  Clear  out !  that's  what  you've  got  to  do,  and 
in  double  quick  time.  How  much  did  you  lend 
her?" 


BACCARAT  153 

To  Leon  Diderot,  whose  teeth  were  chatter- 
ing, who  could  not  recover  from  the  shaking  he 
had  had,  who  had  a  thousand  things  to  say, 
bitter,  satirical,  biting  things  that  he  could  not 
get  out,  that  he  was  too  frightened  to  speak, 
seeing  that  Jean  and  Jules  had  deserted  him, 
and  he  was  alone  with  this  madman,  the  last 
sentence  was  like  a  douche  of  cold  water.  He 
staggered  under  it;  his  teeth  were  chattering, 
but  he  recovered  under  it,  as  John  said  again 
impatiently : 

"  You  lent  her  money.  Don't  I  know  she 
wouldn't  have  stood  you  for  a  minute  if  it  hadn't 
been  that?  How  much?  Out  with  it." 

Tiens!  but  how  drole!  He  would  not  fight,  but 
he  would  give  him  money.  He  would  buy  back 
this  little  woman.  Ah!  if  only  Jean  and  Jules 
were  outside,  or  better  still,  were  here,  he  would 
say  a  little  thing  to  him,  a  word  to  him.  .  .  . 

"How  much?"  growled  John,  like  the  bear, 
the  English  bear  that  he  was,  giving  a  man  no 
time  to  think,  to  calculate. 

"At  the  tables?" 


154  BACCARAT 

"  The  Caisse  is  settled.  I  mean  her  debt  to  you, 
the  personal  debt." 

Ah !  how  Diderot  wanted  to  say  a  word,  a  little 
word.  His  eyes  were  narrowed,  and  his  thin 
tongue  was  venomous.  But  there  was  white  un- 
der the  greyness  of  John  Courtney's  opaque  skin, 
there  was  still  red  in  his  eyes.  Almost  Leon 
could  see  that  the  hands  which  now  held  the 
pocket-book,  the  pocket-book  thick  with  notes, 
were  hot  and  tingling.  They  were  an  outrageous 
size,  those  hands.  There  was  no  delicacy,  no 
finesse  about  this  Englishman;  he  was  a  mere 
brute.  Well !  he  would  bleed,  he  was  a  beast  that 
would  bleed.  There  were  plenty  of  women. 
Peste!  the  world  was  full  of  them. 

"  Madame  is  in  my  debt  two  thousand  francs." 
But  one  thousand  would  be  consolation  for  the 
loss  of  her  charming  society,  he  said  to  himself. 

John  counted  out  the  notes.  He  was  glad  to 
hear  it  was  so  much.  What  did  it  matter  what  he 
did  for  her,  his  little  Julie,  in  the  power  of  a  thing 
like  this  ?  The  jealousy  of  a  John  Courtney  could 
not  be  roused  by  a  Leon  Diderot.  She  had  to  be 


BACCARAT  155 

taken  care  of,  and  he  had  failed  in  his  trust.  Let 
him  get  rid  of  the  man,  pay  him,  kick  him  out; 
then  he  could  go  back  to  her,  try  to  win  her  con- 
fidence, make  her  understand  she  must  get  well. 
There  was  nothing  to  fear,  he  was  looking  after 
her,  waiting  to  take  her  back  to  Southampton. 
The  children,  too,  would  be  waiting  for  her  there. 
Her  illness  somehow  or  other  comforted  him, 
confirmed  her  letter,  explained  it.  It  had  been  an 
impulse,  a  sudden  unwarranted,  misguided  im- 
pulse, which  had  driven  her  hurriedly  from  Ca- 
bourg.  God!  what  hideous  spectres  had  been 
conjured  up  by  these  damned  Frenchmen.  His 
little  Julie ! 


CHAPTER    IX 

MID-DAY  saw  John  seated  by  the  bedside  of  his 
wife.  She  did  not  recognise  him,  neither  then, 
nor  during  the  many  days  that  followed.  He 
sat  there,  by  the  bedside,  listening  to  her  delirious 
raving,  cutting  a  strange  figure  before  the  Sceur 
and  the  doctor,  and  the  hotel  attendants,  who 
came  in  and  out,  and  whispered  about  his  story, 
and  knew  well  enough  all  that  had  occurred,  not- 
withstanding the  fact  that  Monsieur  Diderot  had 
gone,  and  that  John  Courtney  had  remained. 

It  was  brain  fever;  she  might  live,  she  might 
die,  the  doctors  said.  She  grew  so  weak  that 
they  had  to  feed  the  inflammation  rather  than  let 
her  die  of  exhaustion. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  things  she  said  in  her 
raving,  all  her  delirious  mutterings,  John  hardly 
moved  from  the  bedside.  If  he  could  have  been 
glad,  if,  with  his  horrible  doubts  and  distress, 
there  had  been  any  room  in  his  heart  or  mind  for 

156 


BACCARAT  157 

gladness,  or  thanksgiving,  he  would  have  been 
glad  that  he  had  followed  her,  that  he  had  come 
up  with  her.  For,  amongst  all  the  things  she  said, 
the  name  of  John  came  oftenest. 

"John,  John,  John!" 

Sometimes,  for  hour  after  melancholy  hour,  in 
the  sick  room,  there  was  nothing  but  this,  and 
the  jargon  of  the  baccarat  tables : 

"  Faites  vos  jeux,  faites  vos  jeux.  Huit  a  la 
banque,  neuf  a  la  banque,  la  banque  gagnel" 
And  then  "  John"  again,  with  sweet  words,  and 
tender  words,  and  words  that  wrung  his  heart. 

Once,  when  the  fever  for  the  moment  had  left 
her,  and  she  was  lying  exhausted,  and  her  voice 
was  so  low  that  he  had  to  bend  over  to  her  so  that 
he  might  hear,  she  spoke  to  him  as  if  she  knew 
him.  There  was  no  recognition  in  the  eyes  that 
looked  into  his,  but  she  spoke  as  if  she  knew 
him. 

"  Do  you  know  what  baccarat  means,  John,  my 
John?  It  is  worthless,  valueless,  nothing;  you 
throw  it  away,  you  have  lost,  everything,  it  is  all 
gone.  This  is  me  baccarat!  John,  I  am  bac- 


158  BACCARAT 

carat,  valueless,  nothing — are  you  listening?" 
And  then  the  thread  went,  and  the  rest  was  mere 
quick,  incoherent  babble. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  fever  and  the 
inflammation  were  both  gone.  Weak,  exhausted, 
after  nearly  twenty-three  hours'  almost  unbroken 
sleep,  John's  anxiety  meanwhile  giving  place  to 
hope,  and  hope  to  sceptic  certainty,  she  awoke 
and  smiled  at  John,  as  she  had  smiled  at  him  on 
waking  through  all  the  years  of  their  married  life. 

"  Is  that  you,  John  ?"  she  said  in  her  weak  low 
voice,  "  Is  that  my  John?"  put  out  a  feeble  hand 
and  smiled. 

Then  he  broke  down  a  little ;  then,  for  the  first 
time,  his  calm  gave  way  and  he  had  to  hurry  from 
the  room.  He  was  back  again  before  she  had 
been  fed  with  her  bouillon,  before  she  had  sunk 
back  on  her  pillows. 

"  Don't  go  away.  Why  did  you  go  away  ?" 
she  asked,  almost  querulously.  "  I  wanted  you  to 
be  here." 

It  was  absurd  to  have  attached  any  importance 
to  the  things  that  had  broken  from  her  in  de- 


BACCARAT  159 

linum.  She  was  the  old  Julie  whom  he  had 
nursed  through  illnesses  before,  who  had  de- 
manded everything  from  him.  What  nightmare 
had  he  allowed  to  haunt  him?  Why  had  he  lis- 
tened, and  let  it  touch  or  taunt  him? 

"  Here,  I  say,  now,  you'll  have  to  keep  quiet. 
No  talking  allowed.  I'm  not  going  to  move. 
Just  you  drink  what  she's  offering  you,  and  go  off 
to  sleep,  that's  what  you've  got  to  do." 

"  I  will  not  speak.  But  sit  there,  sit  there 
where  I  can  see  you  all  the  time.  I  think  I  have 
been  very  ill.  I  have  had  dreams,  horrible,  ter- 
rible dreams.  I  dreamt  that  you  were  not  there, 
that  I  was  all  alone,  always  alone,  that  the  chil- 
dren were  not  there,  that " 

Her  pale,  sweet  face  was  working,  already  the 
tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Vous  ne  devez  pas  I'agiter,  Monsieur;  Ma- 
dame est  a  peine  hors  de  danger." 

He  gave  way  to  authority,  resuming  his  seat  by 
her  bedside,  ceasing  to  speak  to  her.  And  yet  he 
wondered  dully  what  sort  of  danger  she  had  been 
in,  from  what  peril  he  had  rescued  her.  The  last 


160  BACCARAT 

ten  days  had  been  filled  with  anxiety,  for  her  life 
had  been  in  actual  danger.  Yet  the  background 
of  his  days  and  nights  held  something  as  bad,  or 
worse,  than  his  anxiety;  he  had  not  faced  it  yet. 
It  flashed  out  during  the  watches  of  the  night, 
assailed  him  unawares  in  the  early  dawn,  but  he 
gave  it  no  welcome. 

Now  that  her  life  was  no  longer  in  danger,  and 
she  neared  convalescence,  he  was  conscious  of 
wrestling  always  with  ugly  doubt.  She  watched 
him  wistfully  round  the  room;  she  lay  quiet  for 
hours  watching  him.  But  her  eyes  were  not 
merry  and  dancing,  as  they  had  been,  they  were 
strained  with  fear.  Her  progress  was  very  slow. 
Once  or  twice,  when  the  nurse  was  out  of  the 
room,  he  thought  she  wanted  to  tell  him  some- 
thing, to  confide  something  to  him.  But  a  terri- 
ble timidity  lay  about  her,  and  soon  about  them 
both.  He  dreaded  to  hear  what  she  would  tell 
him,  he  would  not  hear  it.  He  tried  one  day  to 
tell  her  so. 

"  I  suppose  you're  worrying  that  little  head  of 
yours  about  something  or  other.  What's  the 


BACCARAT  161 

good  ?  What's  past  is  past.  Make  haste  and  get 
well,  I  want  to  get  back  to  work.  Don't  you 
want  to  get  back  to  the  kids  ?" 

She  scanned  his  face  breathlessly,  her  colour 
rising  and  rising,  the  strained  eyes  more  terrified 
still.  Then  the  tears  rose  in  them,  hot  and  scald- 
ing, not  like  Julie's  tears,  she  turned  her  face  away 
from  him,  and  buried  it  in  the  pillow.  He  saw 
the  heave  of  her  shoulders,  and  bent  over  her. 

"  Here,  that  won't  do,  you  know;  that's  not 
allowed." 

He  was  so  awkward,  so  inarticulate,  and  cursed 
himself  for  it.  "  What  a  blundering  fool  I  am," 
he  thought. 

"  Julie !"  he  burst  out  in  desperation ;  "  for 
God's  sake,  don't  cry,  leave  off  crying.  If  we 
must  have  it  out,  we  must.  It's  all  settled,  that 
fellow's  levanted;  there's  nothing  for  you  to  do 
but  to  get  well,  and  to  come  home." 

But  still  her  face  was  turned  from  him.  "  Oh ! 
John!  if  you  knew,  if  you  only  knew,"  were 
the  words  he  heard,  as  he  bent  over  the  bed. 

"My  dear!" 

11 


162  BACCARAT 

Even  she  had  hardly  heard  from  him  so  tender 
a  voice,  and  yet  it  was  gruff. 

"  What's  all  this  about  knowing?  You  were 
carried  away  by  the  play,  I  ought  not  to  have  left 
you  alone  then.  I've  settled  up,  it  won't  break 
me." 

It  was  more  and  more  difficult  for  him  to 
speak. 

"  And  if  it  did  .  .  .  well,  I  like  to  pay  your 
debts.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  Julie !" — it  was  almost 
a  cry — "  get  well,  let's  forget  all  this.  I  want  my 
wife." 

She  turned  to  him,  and  he  gathered  her  in 
his  arms.  There  was  a  minute's  silence  between 
them.  He  bent  his  head,  now  he  would  have 
kissed  her  lips.  But  she  had  not  spoken : 

"No,  No,  No!"  in  a  rising  crescendo,  and 
again  her  face  was  hidden,  but  this  time  against 
his  shoulder.  He  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the  shame 
that  overwhelmed  her.  As  for  him,  his  heart  went 
cold,  and  what  little  voice  he  had  was  frozen  in 
his  throat. 

And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  flung  her  arms 


BACCARA^T  163 

about  his  neck,  and  sought  the  kiss  she  had  re- 
fused, the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Oh !  John,  John.  Forgive  me,  forgive  me. 
I  can't  live  without  you.  I  can't,  can't,  can't !" 

"Who's  talkin'  of  living  without  me?"  The 
words  trembled  hoarsely  in  his  throat. 

"  Oh !  I  know  I'm  wicked ;  you  could  put  me 
away.  Oh !  don't  do  it,  darling.  I  love  you  so, 
and  the  children.  Do  forgive  me.  .  .  .  You  don't 
know  what  I've  done.  But  I  hated  him,  John,  I 
hated  him.  John,  take  me  back!" 

His  blood  ran  cold,  the  arms  that  held  her 
relaxed ;  he  had  wanted  not  to  know,  he  had  put 
the  knowledge  persistently  away.  She  would  not 
let  his  arms  relax,  she  held  herself  to  him,  clung 
to  him,  prayed  to  him,  entreated  him;  and  he 
could  not  bear  it.  She  was  shaken  with  passionate 
tears  and  entreaty.  He  had  to  play  the  man,  and 
it  was  not  like  a  man  that  he  felt,  but  like  a  mad- 
man. He  heard  her  frantic  prayers  to  him  for 
forgiveness.  His  poor  little  Julie ! 

"  Don't  put  me  away.  I  can't  live  without 
you,  don't." 


164  BACCARAT 

"Who's  talkin'  of  putting  away?"  he  said 
huskily. 

"You  will  forgive  me?  Some  day,  soon, 
John!" 

Her  arms  were  tight  around  his  neck,  her  lips 
were  entreating,  seeking  his. 

"  You  cannot,  I  know  you  cannot,  not  at  once. 
But  if  you  say  you  will,  you  will."  For  even  she 
knew  that  of  John. 

He  was  wrestling  in  the  throes  of  an  an- 
guish that  had  seized  him  suddenly  like  a 
living  thing,  an  unbearable  spasm  of  physical 
jealousy.  She  held  him,  she  clung  to  him  .  .  . 
he  let  her  hold  and  cling.  And  soon  the  feel 
of  her  slender  figure  against  him,  the  touch  of 
her  clinging  arms,  the  sound  of  her  tears,  recalled 
another  time. 

He  recalled  the  hour  when  the  child,  for  she 
was  only  a  child  then,  had  flung  herself  into  his 
arms.  He  had  asked  her  awkwardly  to  be  his 
wife,  and  she  had  flung  herself  into  his  arms,  and 
burst  out  that  she  loved  him!  The  lovely  child! 
And  he,  gauche,  shy,  had  been  overwhelmed  by 


BACCARAT  165 

what  she  had  awakened  in  him.  He  had  vowed 
himself  to  her  in  that  hour.  A  man  must  keep 
his  vow,  whether  he  had  written  it  or  spoken  it, 
or  vowed  it  to  himself  when  for  the  first  time 
sweet  love  had  broken  in  living  waters  over  his 
soul,  flooding  it  with  ecstasy,  changing  the  world. 
John  could  not  change;  already  his  arms  were 
tightening  around  her. 

"  But  you  must  say  it.  I  know  if  you  say  it,  it 
is  done.  John,  say  '  Little  Julie,  I  forgive  you,  I 
love  you  again.'  Oh !  John." 

"  I  have  never  ceased  to  love  you." 

His  voice  was  husky;  for  once  he  could 
speak. 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  what  you've  done,  I 
couldn't  bear  to  hear  it.  Whatever  it  is,  I  forgive 
you.  Oh !  Julie,  don't  you  know  you  are  the  light 
of  my  eyes  ?" 

And  she  was  awed  by  the  sob  that  broke  from 
him,  the  one  deep  sob.  He  laid  her  back  gently 
in  her  bed,  he  hurried  from  the  room.  He  could 
not  go  on  talking,  neither  could  he  face  her,  just 
at  that  minute.  He  must  be  alone. 


166  BACCARAT 

What  he  suffered  was  terrible.  And  he  had  let 
the  man  go !  He  had  had  his  hands  on  the  man's 
throat,  and  let  him  go.  Oh  God!  for  another 
chance.  He'd  wring  the  life  out  of  him,  strangle 
him  like  a  dog.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER    X 

HE  could  not  return  to  her  that  night.  All 
should  be  as  before  between  them.  He  had  prom- 
ised to  forgive  her,  he  had  forgiven  her,  and  he 
would  not  go  back  on  it.  But  he  must  have  a 
little  time  to  himself,  to  grow  accustomed  to  it, 
to  face  what  he  had  undertaken. 

His  night  was  sleepless,  but  in  the  morning  he 
heard  that  Julie  had  slept  like  a  little  child.  John, 
in  that  white  night  of  his,  tried  to  reason  it  out, 
to  strengthen  himself  with  reason.  Had  it  been 
himself  to  whom  such  an  adventure  had  befallen ; 
a  week's  gambling,  a  glass  too  much  of  wine,  an 
indiscretion ;  would  not,  with  many  men  he  knew, 
have  counted  seriously  against  him.  They  would 
think  it  a  cause  for  laughter,  for  chaff.  He  had 
hardly  realised  until  now,  when  he  set  out  to 
argue  on  behalf  of  his  poor  Julie,  how  rigid  were 
his  own  moral  views.  But  he  based  them  on  the 
words  he  had  said  at  the  altar :  "  Forsaking  all 

167 


168  BACCARAT 

others,  keep  thou  only  unto  her,  as  long  as  you 
both  shall  live."  .  .  .  And  he  had  answered :  "I 
will." 

To  him  a  promise  was  a  promise.  But  he  knew 
every  man  did  not  feel  like  that.  Numbers  of  men 
he  knew  had  committed  adultery,  pleasant  fellows, 
good  fellows,  who  were  respected,  and  held  their 
heads  high.  But  for  a  woman  it  was  damning. 
Why  should  there  be  one  law  for  the  man  and 
another  for  the  woman?  It  was  not  fair;  he 
would  not  subscribe  to  it. 

It  was  so  simple  to  say  all  that,  so  difficult  to 
keep  himself  steady,  and  avert  his  mind  from  all 
that  had  occurred.  The  forgiveness  must  be  com- 
plete. If  he  could  not  get  the  matter  out  of  his 
mind,  nor  the  bitterness  of  it  out  of  his  heart, 
at  least  he  could  keep  control  of  himself  so  that 
she  should  not  suspect  there  was  a  flaw  in  the 
entirety  of  his  pardon.  She  must  laugh  again, 
dimple  into  happy  smiles,  sing  about  his  house; 
only  then  would  he  have  kept  his  word.  She 
must  not  see  that  he  suffered. 

He  dreaded  going  to  her  room  the  next  morn- 


BACCARAT  169 

ing.  But  when  she  greeted  him  with  a  smile  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  his  heart  fell.  But  in  him, 
too,  perhaps,  she  saw  no  difference!  He,  too, 
was  calm  on  the  surface;  he  would  not  judge 
her. 

"  Oh !  I  have  slept  so  sound.  The  good  Sister 
says  if  I  sleep  like  that,  I  shall  so  soon  be  well. 
That  will  be  nice,  is  it  not  so  ?  We  will  go  home, 
back  to  dear  Southampton,  to  our  little  house." 

John  knew  everything,  and  had  forgiven  her. 
She  was  back  in  port  again,  riding  at  ease  in 
the  wide  calm  harbour  of  his  love.  To  please 
him,  she  must  grow  strong  quickly.  What  could 
he  do  with  himself  in  this  French  hotel,  away 
from  his  office  ?  What  she  must  do  for  him  first, 
to  show  how  she  loved  him,  was  to  get  well 
quickly. 

It  was  marvellous  to  him  how  quickly  she  grew 
strong,  after  that  day  when  she  learnt  that  he 
knew  everything,  forgave  everything,  bade  her 
forget  everything.  Endlessly  now  she  questioned 
him  about  the  little  house  at  Southampton,  the 
window  boxes,  and  what  flowers  would  be  there 


170  BACCARAT 

for  September,  the  new  chintzes,  ordered  before 
she  had  left,  the  cleaning  of  the  curtains,  and  all 
the  sweet  commonplaces  of  their  happy  days. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  a  sudden  swift  remembrance 
seemed  to  dye  the  thin  cheek.  But  then  with  a 
graceful,  quick  movement  she  would  hide  against 
his  shoulder,  or  his  arm,  or  any  part  of  him  that 
was  handy,  saying  nothing.  Then  he  would 
suffer. 

Of  what  was  she  thinking,  what  had  she  re- 
membered? Already  in  the  first  few  days  after 
he  had  given  his  promise,  there  were  times  when 
he  thought  that  what  he  had  undertaken  might 
prove  impossible.  At  others  her  unconsciousness 
that  everything  was  poisoned  for  him  by  what  had 
occurred,  helped  him  to  think  himself  mistaken, 
to  ease  him.  After  all,  nothing  could  have  hap- 
pened, or  she  could  not  be  at  times  so  nearly  gay. 
The  hours  when  he  said  to  himself,  "  nothing 
could  have  happened,"  and  the  hours  when  he 
said  to  himself  that  in  any  case  there  should  not 
be  one  law  for  the  woman  and  one  for  the  man, 
were  divided  by  the  hours  that  he  spent  by  her 


BACCARAT  171 

side,  cheating  himself  into  a  belief  that  he  be- 
lieved it. 

Marie  sent  her  the  children's  letters.  These 
were  not  long,  and  both  Julie  and  John  could 
laugh  over  them. 

"  Dere  Mumsy,  cum  soon;  Janes  kakes  is 
beestly,"  was  Jack's  effusion. 

Genie  was  a  loving  little  soul : 

"  I  miss  my  Mumsy ;  I  want  her  to  come  back 
to  her  derely  loving  little  girl.  Nobody  kisses  me 
good  night,"  Julie  read  with  tears.  But  when  the 
tears  brimmed  over,  John's  coat  sleeve  had  the 
benefit. 

How  sick  he  grew  of  that  French  hotel  in  the 
days  of  Julie's  convalescence;  how  he  hated  its 
cafe  complet,  its  plush  and  mirrors,  the  food  he 
shared  with  Julie  in  her  bedroom,  or,  worse  still, 
the  meals  he  ordered  for  himself  in  the  table  d'hote 
room.  He  scarcely  went  out  at  all.  The  empty 
boulevards,  the  cafes  with  their  deserted  chairs 
and  idle  garqons,  the  dust  and  smells,  which  are 
all  of  Paris  that  remains  in  August,  were  a  weari- 
ness and  disgust  to  him.  He  wanted  to  be  home. 


172  BACCARAT 

Among  familiar  things  his  forgetfulness  might 
grow  genuine. 

It  came  at  length,  the  day  of  his  release,  the 
day  when  nurse  and  doctor  and  Julie  herself 
agreed  she  was  well  enough  to  travel.  Genie 
and  Jack  need  wait  no  more.  She  would  not 
answer  their  letters  until  she  could  tell  them  she 
would  come. 

It  would  be  on  Thursday ;  they  would  travel  at 
night,  so  that  the  children  might  meet  the  morn- 
ing boat.  She  took  a  long  time  composing  her 
letter,  sitting  in  the  easy  chair,  a  pillow  from  the 
bed  propped  against  her  back,  her  writing  pad  on 
her  lap.  From  time  to  time  she  raised  her  head 
to  ask  John's  opinion,  John's  advice.  He  was 
sitting  opposite  to  her,  Galignani  in  his  hand. 
He  could  not  read  it,  because  he  was  asking  him- 
self, yet  trying  not  to  do  so,  if  she  remembered 
the  last  letter  she  had  written,  the  one  that  was 
still  in  his  pocket-book,  which  he  had  read  so 
often. 

"  It  will  be  cold,  so  early  in  the  morning.  I 
shall  tell  Marie  that  Genie  must  wear  her  serge 


BACCARAT  173 

— and  her  reefer  cap.  Do  you  think  I  am  right, 
John?" 

"  I  am  telling  her  to  see  that  Jack  doesn't  stand 
too  near  the  edge  of  the  quay;  she  must  hold  his 
hand  when  our  boat  comes  in  sight;  he  will  be 
excited " 

"  Jane  must  have  breakfast  ready  for  us ;  you 
will  be  hungry  so  early;  bacon  for  you,  and 
coffee,  a  new  laid  egg,  English  jam.  I  should  like 
the  children  to  breakfast  with  us  just  for  once." 
And  she  looked  up  wistfully : 

"  Oh !  John,  do  you  think  I  might  say  the 
children  will  breakfast  with  us,  just  that  morning 
we  come  home  ?" 

And  John  said  shortly,  trying  to  put  that  last 
letter  out  of  his  mind,  that  she  was  quite  right 
about  the  serge  dress,  and  that  certainly  Marie 
must  hold  Jack's  hand,  and  that  it  would  be  very 
agreeable  for  once  to  have  the  children's  company 
at  breakfast. 

Julie  thought  it  was  fortunate  that  they  had 
so  calm,  so  beautiful,  a  night  for  their  steamer 
journey.  The  stars  were  shining,  and  the  sea 


174  BACCARAT 

was  so  smooth  that  she  could  not  feel  the  motion 
of  the  vessel.  She  sat  on  deck  the  early  part  of 
that  wonderful  night,  holding  John's  hand,  talk- 
ing. It  had  always  been  she  who  chattered,  John 
who  listened,  and  it  was  no  different  now,  not  a 
bit  different.  They  both  of  them  told  themselves 
this  so  constantly  that  perhaps  it  would  become 
true.  In  any  case,  they  sat  together  on  the  deck 
as  the  vessel  bore  them  homeward,  her  head 
against  his  shoulder,  her  hand  seeking  his.  Pres- 
ently she  slept  there,  too,  under  the  darkened 
canopy  of  the  sky,  and  John  sat  holding  her.  His 
wife  was  his  own  again.  There  had  been  no  other 
woman  in  his  life,  no  need  for  one.  This  was 
his,  this  pretty,  weak,  pathetic  Julie.  What  if 
she  had  disappointed  him,  he  need  not  let  her 
see  it.  She  had  been  sinned  against,  was  not 
sinful.  His  arm  ached  with  holding  her,  and  the 
ache  in  his  arm  presently  helped  him  to  forget  the 
other  ache  that  was  fastening  on  him,  like  an 
inward  cancer,  throwing  its  roots  deep  down. 

The    ship    steamed    on,    but    now    the    night 
changed.     There  were  no  more  stars,  and  the 


BACCARAT  175 

moon  too  was  hidden.  The  sea  turned  sullen,  and 
the  wind  that  rose  seemed  to  stir  its  depths.  It 
heaved  and  moaned,  as  if  it  threatened  and 
warned.  The  air  grew  chilly. 

"  There's  a  storm  coming,  sir;  best  take  your 
lady  downstairs." 

She  hardly  awoke  as  John  carried  her  down  the 
hatchway,  laid  her  in  the  bunk,  and  covered  her 
warmly.  He  was  gentle  enough  with  her,  for  all 
his  size  and  awkwardness.  She  was  fragile  still, 
and  pathetic  in  her  sleep.  She  was  in  his  blood, 
this  woman,  he  could  not  separate  himself  from 
her.  She  stirred  and  clung  to  him,  he  kissed  her 
almost  passionately,  then  roughly  bade  her  sleep 
on. 

"  Dear  John !"  she  murmured  sleepily. 

John  could  not  bear  the  heat  and  confinement 
of  her  cabin;  he  hardly  knew  what  ailed  him. 
He  got  up  the  companion  ladder,  and  into  the 
air  again  quickly.  The  coming  storm  suited  his 
coming  mood.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  sufferings. 
To  hide  them  from  her  was  easy,  from  himself 
difficult,  almost  impossible.  He  was  inarticulate, 


176  JBACCARAT 

dry  and  dumb.  But  already  in  these  last  days 
there  had  been  times,  it  would  have  been  impossi- 
ble for  it  to  have  been  otherwise,  when  thoughts 
came  to  him,  and  pictures  shaped  themselves, 
when  his  eyes  were  on  fire,  and  the  back  of  his 
neck  swelled,  and  his  heart  turned  to  water,  see- 
ing what  he  saw,  knowing  what  had  been  done 
to  him. 

To-night  had  been  one  of  those  occasions.  His 
passion  for  his  wife  had  not  died  out,  nor  lessened, 
in  the  years  of  their  married  life.  This  had  been 
their  first  separation,  and  it  had  lasted  two 
months.  As  he  carried  her  down  the  hatchway, 
as  he  felt  in  his  arms  her  slender  grace  and  beauty, 
as  he  kissed  her  sleeping  cheek,  agony  and  repul- 
sion rose  together  in  his  throat,  choking  his  desire 
for  her,  wrenching  him  from  his  calm. 

The  thing  had  been  so  beautiful.  She  had 
rounded  his  life,  and  made  it  complete.  No  man 
in  Southampton  was  so  happy  or  so  proud  as  he. 
Now  the  machinery  was  all  jarred  and  broken. 
As  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  as  his  passion  for  her 
drew  that  kiss  from  him,  he  felt  the  jar  of  that 


BACCARAT  177 

spoilt  mechanism,  he  was  flung  apart  from  her  as 
if  by  the  rotation  of  the  wheel. 

Shaken  by  the  revolt,  and  anguished,  he  walked 
the  deck.  He  tried  to  get  clear  with  himself,  he 
had  to  get  clear. 

He  remembered  that  day,  so  many  years  ago, 
when,  in  Madame  Courvoisier's  salon,  he  had  felt 
in  his  boy's  soul  the  stirring  of  some  new  life, 
some  new  emotion,  that  he  had  thought  it  was 
love  for  this  charming  French  woman,  with 
gaiety  and  sadness  struggling  together  in  her 
eyes,  this  woman  old  enough  to  be  his  mother, 
who  had  treated  him  as  a  man,  made  him  forget 
his  twenty-one  years,  and  thrilled  him  with  her 
kindness,  and  who,  when  he  had  seized  her  hand, 
and  covered  it  with  kisses,  and  commenced  some 
incoherent  sentence,  had  interrupted  him,  quite 
innocently,  apparently,  to  talk  to  him  of  her  child, 
of  her  little  Julie.  Surely  it  was  then  already  that 
the  great  romance  had  commenced.  He  had 
kissed  Madame's  hand,  and  she  had  talked  to  him 
of  la  petite! 

He  saw  himself  gauche,  provincial,  in  no  sense 

12 


178  BACCARAT 

a  man  of  the  world,  until  the  three  weeks  at  Bou- 
logne, the  friendship,  the  condescension  of  the 
Courvoisiers,  had  made  him  one.  Whatever  else 
the  Baron  and  the  Baroness  may  have  been,  less 
or  more  than  the  world  saw  them,  their  sphere 
was  larger,  wider,  than  his  own.  He  added  their 
outlook  to  his,  and  was  grateful  for  the  oppor- 
tunity. When  he  realised  that  the  Baron  was  but 
a  broken-down  gambler,  questionably  honest,  it 
still  had  been  a  compliment  that  he  had  sought 
out  young  John  Courtney,  of  Southampton,  for 
friendship. 

And  Madame  la  Baronne,  old,  tired,  worn  with 
her  life  before  the  time  had  come  for  her  to  be 
worn,  had  a  girl's  smile  lingering  strangely  amid 
the  wrinkles  round  her  eyes,  and  the  light  of 
scarce  quenched  laughter  in  her  brown  eyes. 
Often,  after  that  day  when  he  had  kissed  Ma- 
dame's  hand  and  grown  suddenly  into  manhood, 
whilst  the  Baron  was  venturing  his,  or  hers,  or 
John's,  last  louis  on  the  green  cloth,  Madame 
would  talk  to  him  of  la  petite,  still  in  her  con- 
vent, would  tell  of  her  hopes  that  the  religious 


BACCARAT  179 

life  would  be  her  happy  lot,  that  the  Sisters  would 
keep  her  always  with  them. 

It  did  not  seem  sad  to  the  old  gambler's  wife 
that  all  the  young  days,  and  the  full  days,  of  her 
little  one  should  be  passed  in  the  quiet  of  con- 
ventual halls;  it  seemed  the  happiest,  the  only 
happy,  way.  But  to  John  Courtney,  in  the  ignor- 
ance of  his  free  Protestantism,  it  seemed  hideous. 
He  liked  to  hear  Madame  la  Baronne  talk  of  la 
petite,  and  often  he  thought  he  saw  the  young  girl 
in  the  worn  woman,  whose  hand  he  had  kissed. 
He  saw  her  behind  convent  walls,  and  was  sorry 
for  her,  even  then,  before  he  had  known  her. 

He  remembered — the  storm  was  rising  and  the 
heavens  were  heavy  and  overclouded,  the  sea 
heaved  and  the  steamer  rose  and  sank — but  it 
was  only  the  past  he  saw.  He  remembered  meet- 
ing the  Courvoisiers  the  next  year,  and  again 
the  next,  at  Spa,  at  Monte  Carlo,  at  Wimereux. 
They  had  taught  him  to  learn  French,  to  learn 
people,  to  see  cities,  to  leave  off  thinking  that 
Southampton  was  the  world;  they  had  made  a 
man  of  him.  Always  he  talked  to  Madame  whilst 


180  BACCARAT 

Courvoisier  played,  always  she  talked  of  her  petite 
Julie. 

Then  Madame  died,  and  John  it  was  who 
grieved.  The  Baron  still  played.  John  knew 
now  that  all  the  drama  of  his  life  had  developed 
around  these  Courvoisiers.  They  had  been  his 
holidays ;  and  la  petite,  though  she  had  not  been 
with  them,  was  always  of  them,  her  babbling 
phrases  repeated,  her  little  letters  handed  round, 
her  simple  clothes  made,  and  discussed,  in  what- 
ever poor  room  Madame  la  Baronne  sat  and 
sewed  and  cooked. 

Later  on,  the  dying  Baron  in  the  Southampton 
lodging  which  John  had  taken  for  him,  and  the 
absurd  claim  on  the  Cavendish  estate,  became  part 
of  the  drama,  and  belonged  to  the  holiday.  The 
old  gambler  died  like  a  gentleman,  however  he 
may  have  lived.  He  was  courteous  to  his  nurse, 
grateful  to  John,  complimentary  to  the  doctor. 
When  he  suffered,  no  one  heard  him  groan,  when 
the  death  dews  were  on  his  forehead,  he  apolo- 
gised for  not  being  strong  enough  to  wipe  them 
off. 


BACCARAT  181 

"  C'est  fini"  he  said ;  "  la  pauvre  petite  arrivera 
trop  tard." 

It  was  John  who  met  her,  when,  indeed  too 
late,  she  arrived  in  charge  of  a  Sister.  On  that 
very  quay,  to  which,  notwithstanding  storm  and 
opposing  wave,  they  were  steaming  so  fast,  he 
had  stood  to  watch  her  coming;  it  was  there  he 
had  first  seen  the  little  girl  of  whom  he  had  talked 
so  often.  But  she  was  not  little,  only  slender,  and 
girlish,  and  oh !  so  pretty,  with  those  soft  lips  that 
quivered  and  those  brown  eyes  that  filled,  and 
that  sweet  voice  that  asked  him : 

"  C'est  vous  qui  m'avez  ecritf  Oh !  Monsieur, 
you  will  tell  me  he  is  well,  he  is  better — mon  cher 
pere!" 

And  both  hands  were  outstretched  to  him,  who 
had  no  good  news  to  give  her;  only  sympathy, 
and  that  even  in  words  stiff  and  difficult. 

The  days  that  followed  he  remembered.  So 
little  she  had  seen  of  her  father,  how  could  she 
grieve?  But  without  John  Courtney,  what  was 
before  her  but  grief,  and  lonely  days?  With  all 
her  grace  and  sweetness,  with  all  her  youth  and 


182  BACCARAT 

piquancy,  the  cheeks'  soft  curve  and  flush,  the 
escaping  curl  and  dimplement,  there  was  none 
but  he  to  love  or  cherish  her. 

When  he  first  heard  the  music  of  her  laughter, 
he  was  already  surfeited  with  the  harsh  guffaw  of 
the  provincial  girls  who  flirted  in  the  streets,  and 
cast  bold  eyes  at  his  long  limbs,  and  hunted  him 
openly,  brazenly,  through  their  empty  days.  His 
school  friends  had  married  from  among  girls  like 
these,  already  stale  with  cheap  kisses,  flaunting 
their  showy  beauty,  or  their  showy  ugliness,  hus- 
band hunters,  shameless  and  similar.  He  had 
taken,  perchance,  a  few  kisses  from  those  that 
were  offered  him;  he  was  no  saint,  only  honest, 
giving  little  for  little,  and  promising  nothing. 
The  sweet  of  his  life  was  yet  to  come  to  him. 
Unconsciously  he  was  keeping  himself  free  and 
fit  to  meet  it.  Julie  Courvoisier,  cast  on  his  pro- 
tection, for  there  was  none  but  himself  to  cherish 
her,  he  knew,  almost  from  the  first  moment  he 
saw  her,  was  that  for  which  he  had  been  waiting. 
It  was  too  great  for  him,  but  it  was  for  this  he  had 
waited.  She  came  to  him,  pure  from  childhood, 


BACCARAT  183 

modest  from  instinct,  she  came  safe  from  the  grey 
conventual  walls,  fresh,  a  motherless  thing,  with 
a  tear  in  her  eye  as  the  dew  on  a  moss  bud,  rich 
at  the  core  of  her,  but  unopened,  the  green  of  her 
youth  as  a  mantle  about  her. 

And  when  there  was  talk  of  her  going  back  to 
the  convent,  to  sew,  to  teach,  to  learn  patience, 
and  grow  old  in  learning,  she  had  flung  herself 
into  his  arms ;  no  arms  but  his  had  held  her. 

When  he  reached  this  point  in  his  remembrance 
the  storm  in  his  heart  rose  until  the  hurricane 
outside  was  as  a  summer  breeze,  the  storm  in  his 
heart  strained  and  shook  him  almost  past  endur- 
ance. 

No  arms  but  his  had  held  her! 

It  was  true  then.  Was  it  true  now  ?  Could  he 
bear  it,  could  he  go  on  shutting  it  out?  He  was 
taking  her  home.  Could  he  make  a  home  in  his 
arms  again  for  her,  seeing,  as  he  saw  now,  always, 
and  always  more  plainly,  that  yellow  Belgian, 
who  lived,  and  smiled  his  cursed  smile,  and  rolled 
his  cigarette  with  his  stained  fingers,  and  knew 
what  he  knew? 


184  BACCARAT 

The  man  who  plays  at  being  God,  to  a  woman 
whom  he  still  loves,  not  only  with  depth,  but  with 
passion,  essays  a  role  beyond  human  effort. 

In  Cabourg  when  John  had  heard  about  his 
little  Julie  from  the  men  in  the  hotel  omnibus, 
from  the  proprietor,  from  the  letter  she  had  left 
him,  there  seemed  for  him  no  alternative.  She 
was  his.  He  must  go  to  her,  save  her,  succour 
her. 

In  Paris,  when  she  was  ill,  her  life,  even,  in 
danger,  and  calling  always  to  him,  "  John,  my 
John,"  there  was  nothing  but  his  great  love,  and 
his  great  fear,  and  his  determination  that  he 
would  forget,  that  she  should  forget,  his  insist- 
ence that  all  would  be  as  before  between  them. 
He  would  wrest  back  the  romance  of  his  life; 
those  three  weeks  would  spoil  nothing.  "  Tout 
connaitre,  c'est  tout  pardonner"  said  John  Court- 
ney, and  set  himself  to  play  God. 

Already  in  Paris,  twice  or  three  times  during 
her  convalescence,  an  overwhelming  horror,  an 
overwhelming  hatred,  had  seized  him.  But  he 
had  said  to  himself  at  Cabourg,  sworn  it  in  the 


BACCARAT  185 

train  when  he  read  and  re-read  her  letter,  that, 
beyond  the  gambling,  the  borrowed  money,  the 
hurried  journey  which  he  had  interrupted,  there 
was  nothing  to  hold  his  thoughts. 

In  Cabourg  he  had  said  boldly  to  himself, 
""  And  if  there  were,  it  would  make  no  difference." 
In  Paris,  in  anguish,  he  had  cried,  "  But  of  course 
it  is  impossible."  When  she  pleaded  to  him  he 
forgave  her.  Whatever  she  had  done,  he  forgave 
her.  There  should  not  be  one  law  for  man,  and 
another  for  woman.  He  reasoned  it  out,  and 
that  had  been  the  conclusion  to  which  he  came. 
In  safety  and  reassurance  she  had  pillowed  her 
head  on  his  breast,  relying  on  his  promise. 

To-night  he  had  had  his  arms  about  her,  car- 
ried her  in  them  as  she  slept.  And  as  he  went 
down  the  steps  to  her  cabin,  her  hair  had  fanned 
his  cheek,  he  had  felt  her  slenderness.  When  his 
manhood  rose  to  her,  the  face  of  the  Belgian 
stood  out  before  him  suddenly  in  the  dusk, 
smiling.  John's  feet  had  stumbled,  the  storm 
rose  wild  in  his  heart. 

Julie  slept  while  John  walked  the  deck  all  that 


186  BACCARAT 

wild  night.  Had  he  set  himself  an  impossible 
task?  For  the  first  time  he  was  shaken,  by  a 
definite  doubt  of  his  capacity  for  what  he  had 
undertaken. 

"  Oh !  John,  but  you  have  not  slept,"  she  said, 
"  you  look  pale ;  oh,  my  poor  John !"  Her  face 
was  tender  with  sympathy. 

"  It  has  been  a  wild  night.  I've  walked  about. 
I  am  all  right,  the  storm  is  over.  We  are  in  sight 
of  the  harbour.  See,  isn't  that  Marie  waving? 
Look!" 

He  was  as  bruised,  as  hurt,  as  sore,  as  a  man 
must  be  who  has  fought  all  the  night  through 
with  a  strong,  unconquerable  enemy.  But  he 
was  not  going  to  spoil  his  home-coming.  He 
would  have  to  get  used  to  the  new  state  of  things. 

He  pointed  out  the  children  to  her;  soon  they 
were  near  enough  to  distinguish  them. 

"  Oh !  my  darlings,  my  little  ones !  How  are 
you,  Jack?  How's  Mumsey's  Genie?  They  don't 
hear  me.  Oh!  John,  shout,  they'll  hear  you. 
Darling!  She  is  waving  her  little  handkerchief, 
she  is  struggling  to  get  away  from  Marie,  to  come 


BACCARAT  187 

to  me.  Go  back,  go  back,  wait,  it  is  dangerous !" 
she  cried  out,  although  it  was  impossible  they 
could  hear  her. 

"  John,  /  can't  wait,  I  want  my  children." 

She  entreated  him,  with  her  tearful  eyes,  to 
hurry  the  steamer's  slow  progress.  He  laughed 
at  her,  telling  her  that  in  five  minutes  they  would 
touch  land,  she  must  wait  five  minutes  more. 

The  storm  was  over.  The  worst  of  storms  has 
pauses,  and  deceitful  presages  of  calm,  even  while 
it  gathers  itself  for  fresh  violence. 

It  was  a  happy  breakfast,  with  the  bacon,  and 
the  eggs,  and  the  English  jam,  and  the  excited 
children.  Nothing  could  have  happened.  For 
here  they  were  all  together  again,  just  as  they  had 
been  before  they  left  for  Cabourg.  She  talked  so 
continuously,  just  as  she  had  always  talked. 

How  beautifully  Jane  had  cleaned  the  house, 
the  new  chintz  was  lovely!  How  seldom  things 
looked  as  well  as  you  thought  they  would,  but 
the  chintz  looked  better.  Even  before  breakfast 
she  had  run  from  room  to  room,  as  a  child  runs, 
examining,  touching,  moving  everything.  John 


188  BACCARAT 

had  bought  new  dining-room  furniture,  beautiful 
engravings  for  the  walls,  the  nursery  had  been 
repapered  with  sanitary  paper,  and  new  oilcloth 
was  on  the  floors.  She  ran  backwards  and  for- 
wards, exclaiming,  thanking  him.  This  was  what 
he  had  looked  forward  to,  he  had  had  such  pleas- 
ure in  buying,  and  planning  surprises  for  her. 
Now  his  heart  felt  like  lead.  When  her  inspection 
was  over,  and  the  joy  of  being  once  more  at  home 
overcame  her,  she  must  romp  with  her  children. 
Of  course,  she  had  not  forgotten  how  to  skip,  or 
to  play  cat's  cradle,  or  to  be  a  soldier,  or  a  bear, 
or  anything. 

John  reminded  her,  before  he  went  off  to  the 
office,  that  she  had  been  ill,  that  she  ought  not  to 
over-fatigue  herself.  She  was  almost  pettish,  as 
she  told  him  he  was  "  Vieux  bonhomme"  she  was 
quite  well;  she  must  play  a  little,  she  was  so 
glad — so  glad  to  be  home.  And  then  she  hung 
her  head  a  little,  and  paused  in  her  gaiety.  That 
quick  flush  he  hated  came  to  her,  and  her  eyes 
were  filled  and  wistful. 

"  Oh,  go  on  playing,"  he  said  impatiently,  and 


BACCARAT  189 

strode  off.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself.  What 
on  earth  did  he  want  or  expect?  Was  she  to 
mope,  and  repent,  and  be  miserable?  But  again 
his  heart  contracted.  What  if  he  could  never 
forget  ? 


CHAPTER    XI 

BUT  that  which  haunted  him  continued  to 
haunt  him ;  refusing  persistently  to  be  shaken  off, 
it  dogged  his  days,  dragged  the  sleep  from  his 
nights,  and  robbed  him  of  all  rest. 

Julie  grew  daily  gayer,  more  free  from  her  ill- 
ness, from  the  weakness  that  had  lingered.  She 
and  Genie  were  inseparable  in  work  and  play; 
Genie  was  learning  to  make  beds,  to  sew,  to  cook, 
to  chatter  French.  Jack  had  lessons  with  his 
mother,  and  began,  against  his  will,  to  spell  a 
little. 

She  flung  herself  into  her  household  duties  and 
cares  with  such  eagerness,  and  perhaps,  gratitude, 
that  every  day  was  bright  and  beautiful  with  the 
sheer  joy  of  its  daily  task.  The  potage  that  John 
liked  best  when  she  prepared  it,  the  vegetables 
that  were  fried  in  butter,  the  little  light  cakes  that 
the  children  called  "  mummy's  air  balls ;"  she 
made  all  these  for  him  in  that  first  week  of  her 

190 


BACCARAT  191 

return.  And  then  there  were  wardrobes  to  be 
overhauled,  winter  clothes  to  be  prepared,  and 
John's  new  socks  to  be  commenced.  She  was  busy 
from  morning  until  evening  with  her  housewifeli- 
ness.  They  had  fruit  for  dinner,  and  home-made 
cake  for  lunch.  On  Tuesday  all  three  of  them, 
all  three  children,  as  he  could  not  but  deem  them, 
tumbled  out  of  the  gate  at  once  to  meet  him,  and 
shout  to  him  that  the  bills  were  less  this  week 
than  before  mummy  came  home,  when  they  had 
everything  the  same  every  day!  For  it  was  on 
such  homely  lines  the  little  house  had  always  been 
conducted. 

Was  there  something  wistful  in  the  looks  she 
gave  him,  some  dumb  asking  for  praise,  for 
assurance  that  now  indeed  she  was  forgiven,  she 
was  good  again,  everything  was  right  between 
them  ?  He  hoped  not,  possibly,  in  his  own  dumb 
way,  he  prayed  not.  It  was  for  her  happiness  he 
was  fighting;  he  began  to  feel  his  own  was  gone 
for  ever. 

Her  health,  his  health!  What  matter  the  ex- 
cuse that  came?  He  could  not  be  a  husband  to 


192  BACCARAT 

her ;  his  soul  sickened,  his  body  revolted,  his  spirit 
failed. 

But  all  he  could  do,  he  did;  more  than  most 
men  could  have  done.  He  had  not  learnt  the 
construction  of  the  role  he  tried  to  play.  He 
faltered  for  his  cues,  was  stiff  and  awkward  with 
his  lines.  He  could  not  learn  them.  It  is  only 
God  who  can  forgive. 

The  shadow  of  calamity  hung  over  him  all  that 
time.  His  business  always  prospered.  Tom  Jar- 
vis's  visit  had  been  fruitful  in  work;  there  were 
mortgages  to  prepare,  and  new  investments  for 
which  to  look,  a  large  business  to  wind  up,  a 
bankrupt  estate  to  settle,  rents  to  collect.  The 
Jarvis  interests  were  manifold.  John  neglected 
none  of  them,  he  worked  well,  it  was  only  the 
sweetness  of  his  home  that  had  been  poisoned, 
only  his  sleep  that  had  been  juggled  with. 

He  lay  awake  whilst  she  slept,  happily,  by  his 
side.  In  the  shadows  of  the  room  lurked  the  sal- 
low face,  the  hard  black  eyes,  the  perpetual  smile. 
If  her  nightgown  slipped,  and  the  slender  throat 
was  exposed  and  John  would  put  his  hand  up  to 


BACCARAT  193 

cover  her,  to  care  for  her,  in  momentary  forget- 
fulness,  in  a  love  that  had  not  died,  the  stained 
fingers  were  there  before  him,  even  there,  and  the 
satirical  smile.  John  grew  cold  as  he  lay  back, 
shuddering.  The  nights  were  full  of  horrors,  of 
gibbering  demons  of  jealousy,  of  hatred,  of  pas- 
sionate revolt. 

But  in  the  morning,  when  she  laughed  and 
chattered,  and  the  children  chattered  with  her, 
and  sang,  and  the  window  curtains  and  the  flower 
boxes,  and  the  rolled  gravel  path,  and  the  latch 
of  the  gate  closing  behind  him  as  he  strode  off  to 
his  office,  were  all  that  they  had  ever  been,  he 
shook  off  the  phantoms  of  the  night,  kissed  her, 
kissed  them  his  good-bye,  hoped,  and  always 
hoped,  that  one  day  the  ghosts  would  be  laid. 

"  John,"  said  Julie  one  evening  a  few  weeks 
after  their  return,  "  I  am  going  to  have  a  dinner 
party  next  week.  It  is  time,  is  it  not,  we  have  a 
dinner  party?  Whilst  the  chintzes  are  so  new. 
We  will  ask  Mrs.  Maiden,  and  your  Aunt  Sophia, 
and  the  Joneses;  they  must  all  come  whilst  the 
house  looks  so  fresh.  And  I  have  a  new  dish, 

13 


194  BACCARAT 

'  Petite  demoiselle  de  Cabourg,'  it  is  called ;  it  is 
really  homard,  hot  in  the  shell,  with  a  sauce,  like 
sauce  mousseline,  but  a  flavour !  Ah !  mon  Dieu ! 
John,  we  must  have  the  Travises  too ;  it  is  he  that 
has  the  palate.  And  his  wife  will  be  jealous,  oh! 
how  jealous  she  will  be  of  my  new  dish !" 

"  Oh !  yes,  quite  right.  We  owe  the  Joneses  a 
dinner.  You  might  add  the  Freshfields;  it's  a 
long  time  since  we've  had  them.  Don't  overdo 
the  strangeness  of  the  menu.  Don't  forget  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  the  roast  beef  of  old  England." 

There  they  sat,  the  two  of  them,  in  the  dining- 
room  that  overlooked  the  scrap  of  back  garden. 
They  had  dined  together,  and  Julie  had  been  full 
of  her  day's  news,  of  the  price  of  vegetables,  so 
high  now  that  the  weather  was  getting  colder,  of 
Jack's  wonderful  improvement  in  spelling,  and 
the  good  exercise  he  had  done,  of  Genie's  talent, 
so  extraordinary,  for  needlework,  and  the  great 
secret  that  she  was  making  a  shaving  tidy  for  his 
birthday.  Having  dined,  and  listened  to  it  all, 
John  was  smoking  his  after-dinner  pipe. 

The  curtains  were  drawn,  the  lamps  lit.     Cosy 


BACCARAT  195 

and  homely  the  small  room  looked.  It  fitted 
the  class  to  which  John  Courtney  belonged,  the 
class  that  sit  on  in  the  room  where  they  have 
eaten,  and  watch,  undisturbed,  their  maidservant 
clear  the  table.  On  the  walls  were  wonderful 
engravings  after  Sant,  Luke  Fildes,  and  Marcus 
Stone;  John  had  selected  them.  They  all  told 
stories,  they  were  simple  direct  appeals  to  people 
who  had  no  imagination.  In  the  new  bookcase 
there  were  complete  editions  of  Hall  Caine,  Marie 
Corelli,  and  Guy  Boothby.  There  was  no  attempt 
at  art  in  the  room,  but  it  was  respectable,  safe, 
securely  commonplace. 

John  sighed  as  he  looked  around  him — a  sigh 
that  was  almost  content.  Last  night  again  the 
spectres  had  been  about  him;  but  here,  in  this 
room,  they  were  crowded  out  by  commonplace. 
So  Julie  would  give  a  dinner  party  to  their  friends, 
to  the  people  who  lived  as  they  did,  relatives, 
neighbours,  intimates,  who,  but  for  the  Cour- 
voisier  element,  had  lived  as  John  lived.  It  was 
well  that  they  should  do  so,  do  everything  they 
had  been  wont  to  do,  that  was  the  way  to  get 


196  BACCARAT 

back  to  where  they  had  been,  to  restore  what, 
had  he  been  a  woman,  he  would  have  called  his 
nerves.  For  those  it  was  which  had  been  shaken, 
only  those. 

She  had  moved  about  the  room  to-night,  in 
her  old  deft  way  that  he  had  loved  to  watch;  it 
was  so  different  from  his  own  clumsiness.  She 
had  helped  the  maid  to  pile  the  dishes  on  the 
tray,  to  fold  the  cloth.  Now  she  came  over  to 
where  he  was  sitting,  dropped  on  to  her  favourite 
stool,  and  rested  her  head  against  his  knee.  The 
lamp's  red  shade  met  the  red  gleams  of  the  fire 
and  played  with  her  hair;  she  was  young  and 
charming  in  that  red  twilight.  There  were  still 
traces  of  fragility  about  her,  he  thought,  a  sharp- 
ness of  outline,  a  delicacy  of  skin.  It  had  always 
been  Julie,  not  John,  who  was  demonstrative; 
but,  as  she  sat  on  the  stool  at  his  feet,  resting  her 
head  against  his  knee,  he  was  suddenly,  strangely, 
sorry  for  her,  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  dark 
hair. 

"  So  you  want  to  give  a  dinner  party  ?"  was  all 
he  said.  But  she  quickly  responded  to  the  tender- 


BACCARAT  197 

ness  in  his  voice,  pulling  his  hand  down,  caress- 
ing it,  putting  her  cheek  against  it. 

"  And  then  you  will  talk  about  the  new  golf 
club.  Why  have  you  not  talked  about  the  new 
golf  club  lately,  nor  asked  your  friends  home, 
nor  ?  .  .  .  oh !  John,  John,  everything  has  grown 
different!" 

He  left  his  hand  with  her. 

"  Give  me  time,  dear,  give  me  time,"  he  said 
huskily.  Then  he  resolutely  put  it  aside. 

"  I've  been  too  busy.  Tom  Jarvis  left  me  no 
end  of  work.  But  you're  right  about  the  dinner, 
we  mustn't  let  our  friends  feel  neglected." 

She  knew  then  he  would  not  talk  about  the 
past.  It  was  to  be  silence,  always  silence.  She 
wanted  to  forget,  and  to  feel  that  he  had  for- 
gotten. She  knew  he  had  forgiven  her,  he  had 
said  it.  She  wanted  to  feel  he  had  also  forgotten. 
But  all  she  knew  was  that  there  was  to  be  silence 
between  them.  She  shed  a  few  quiet  tears  in  the 
red  twilight,  there,  with  her  head  against  his 
knee. 

He  had  seen  her  weep  before,  light  easy  tears. 


198  BACCARAT 

Julie  could  always  cry  about  trifles,  a  broken 
plate,  a  grease  spot  on  a  new  dress,  a  mild  con- 
tradiction. It  had  been  his  wont  to  laugh  at  her, 
lift  her  up  in  his  arms,  let  her  have  her  cry  out 
against  his  shoulder;  put  things  right  for  her. 
He  could  not  do  it  to-night,  for  all  his  softened 
mood,  he  could  not  do  it  to-night.  He  puffed  on 
at  his  pipe,  then  broke  in  again : 

"  Well !  and  who  else  is  to  come  to  this  won- 
derful dinner  party?  I  suppose  you've  got  it  all 
cut  and  dried?" 

All  was  to  be  as  before.  The  Courtneys  were 
hospitable  people,  it  had  always  given  them 
pleasure  to  gather  their  friends  around  them,  to 
keep  open  house.  They  did  not  want  to  alter 
their  habits,  to  create  gossip.  Soon  Julie's  tears 
ceased,  and  she  was  telling  him  whom  she  meant 
to  invite,  how  many  courses  she  would  give  them, 
with  what  flowers  she  would  decorate  the  table. 
She  had  learnt  from  a  daily  paper  to  crystallise 
currants,  she  would  try  the  very  next  day;  or  if 
currants  were  out  of  season,  how  would  it  be 
with  cherries,  bottled  cherries?  She  was  ap- 


BACCARAT  199 

parently  quite  happy  again  by  the  time  she  had 
taken  pencil  and  paper  and  begun  to  write  down 
her  arrangements. 

It  had  come  to  her  that  John  looked  pale,  wor- 
ried, over- worked ;  the  dinner  party  was  her  idea 
to  give  him  pleasure.  And  he  had  been  pleased, 
she  felt  that.  Her  tears  had  been  very  super- 
ficial, they  dried  against  his  hand.  He  did  not 
want  to  talk,  to  think,  of  Cabourg.  Perhaps  she 
had  been  wrong  in  suggesting  that  dish.  And 
yet  she  could  wish  that  it  was  possible  to  give 
him,  and  her  guests,  the  wild  strawberries  and 
cheese  which  had  been  the  famous  sweet  at  the 
Grand  Hotel.  How  would  cream  cheese,  soft, 
sweet,  home-made,  do  with  mulberries?  Not 
very  well,  she  thought  regretfully!  John  was 
quite  right,  she  must  not  go  too  far  outside  the 
ordinary,  or  they  would  not  like  it,  these  English 
friends  and  relations  of  John's,  who  loved  best 
the  things  they  knew  best. 

She  was  very  busy  about  her  dinner-party  the 
whole  of  the  next  week.  First,  the  invitations 
had  to  be  sent  out,  and  then  the  answers  were 


200  BACCARAT 

eagerly  waited  for,  a  charwoman  was  engaged, 
and  all  the  little  house  made  gay  with  flowers  and 
palms,  and  bright  ribbons  to  tie  up  pots  and 
antimacassars.  The  dinner  she  must  prepare 
herself. 

But  each  day's  work  seemed  to  try  her  more. 
John  noted  her  pallor,  a  certain  tremulousness, 
symptoms  of  over-strain,  he  thought.  It  wor- 
ried him;  her  pale  face  came  between  him  and 
his  law-books.  He  was  not  carrying  out  his 
pledge — not  honestly  and  completely.  And,  judg- 
ing her  by  himself,  he  thought  she  saw  what 
was  lacking  in  him:  spontaneity,  the  old  free- 
dom. He  thought  she  noted  that  something 
always  checked  and  stopped  him,  that  something 
was  between  them,  although  he  had  said  he  had 
forgiven,  and  would  forget.  Her  looks  re- 
proached him,  although  her  words  never  did. 

One  evening,  three  days  before  the  dinner- 
party, she  did  not  even  come  to  the  gate  to  meet 
him.  The  children  came  alone,  came  with  pale 
and  frightened  faces. 

Mummie  had  been  taken  ill.     She  was  in  the 


BACCARAT  201 

kitchen,  and  Genie  was  with  her,  and  there  was  a 
basket  of  mulberries,  and  some  sugar  in  a  pot 
over  the  fire,  and  suddenly  she  had  called  out, 
and  Jane  had  caught  her  and  laid  her  on  the 
floor ;  Genie  had  run  for  water,  Marie  had  come. 

"  Genie  cried,"  Jack  said. 

"  Mummie's  face  was  so  white."  Genie  was 
quite  ready  to  cry  again. 

"  Marie  said :  '  Ce  riest  rien,  le  feu  est  trop 
ardent.  Maman  a  la  migraine.  Run  away,  chil- 
dren.' " 

"  Jane  said :  '  She'll  soon  come  round ;  it's  the 
'eat  of  that  there  dratted  stove.' ' 

"Jane  said:  'Blow  her  dinner  party;  as  if  I 
couldn't  cook  good  enough  for  the  likes  of  any  of 
them  that's  coming.' ' 

"  She  said  she  cooked  for  Aunt  Sophia  before 
mummie  was  so  much  as  born." 

All  this  was  told  John  as  he  strode  up  the 
garden  path,  and  they  ran  breathlessly  at  his  heels. 
But  Marie  met  him  in  the  hall  and  reassured 
him. 

It    was    nothing,    nothing    at    all.      Madame 


202  BACCARAT 

thought  herself  stronger  than  she  was.  She  was 
trying  some  new  dish  of  which  she  had  read  in  a 
book;  she  had  stood  a  long  time  over  the  fire. 
The  kitchen  was  hot,  and  she  had  turned  a  little 
faint.  Now  Marie  had  put  her  to  bed,  and  had 
made  the  room  dark,  and  she  was  all  right  again. 
Les  enfants  avaient  peur,  mais  c'est  rien,  rien  de 
tout. 

John  went  up.  Julie  lay  in  the  darkened  room, 
her  face  turned  from  him;  he  thought  she  was 
asleep. 

But  he  stood  by  the  bedside  a  few  minutes, 
and  presently  he  noted  that  it  shook;  he  be- 
came conscious,  too,  that  she  was  crying.  His 
poor  little  Julie!  that  was  the  way  he  had  kept 
his  pledges!  In  the  heart  of  his  conscience  he 
felt  her  tears. 

"  So  you've  been  ill,"  he  said;  "  over-doing  it. 
We  shall  have  to  stop  this  famous  dinner-party 
after  all.  Feeling  seedy  still?" 

"Oh!  John;  I'm  so  ill.  ...  I'm  so  fright- 
ened." Her  sobs  shook  the  bed. 

He  sat  down  by  her  side.     How  small,  how 


BACCARAT  203 

frail,  how  young  she  looked!  He  put  his  arms 
about  her. 

"  So  you  were  frightened?" 

It  was  not  what  he  wanted  to  say;  he  wanted 
to  tell  her  he  was  sorry,  to  ask  if  it  was  his 
coldness  in  which  she  grew  cold  and  ill;  he 
wanted  to  promise  that  he  would  be  different. 
But  all  he  could  find  to  say  was :  "  So  you  were 
frightened.  Well,  buck  up." 

"  The  room  went  round,  the  kitchen  got  so 
dark,  I  did  not  know  what  was  going  to  happen; 
I  thought  I  would  die.  Jane  caught  me." 

"And  now,  do  you  feel  all  right  now?" 

He  never  suspected  she  was  being  disingenuous 
with  him;  that  she  had  cause  for  her  fear,  and 
that  her  appeal  to  his  pity,  too,  had  cause. 

"  Better,  since  you  are  holding  me.  But  I 
don't  think  I'm  quite  strong  yet,  I  feel  tired, 
giddy."  She  wanted  him  to  be  sorry  for  her. 
Why  didn't  he  kiss  her  as  he  used?  Did  he, 
could  he,  suspect? 

"  You  mustn't  get  up  to  dinner.  Lie  still,  and 
I'll  bring  you  up  some  soup.  I  expect  it's  a 


204  BACCARAT 

touch  of  liver.  When  I've  had  something  to  eat 
I'll  come  up  and  talk  to  you.  We  mustn't  have 
you  ill  again." 

"  They  will  have  to  go  without  the  crystallised 
fruit  on  Wednesday." 

"  Well,  as  long  as  they  don't  go  without  the 
beef!" 

"  Oh !  John,  my  John !  what  a  trouble  I  am 
to  you !  It  would  be  better  if  I  were  dead." 

She  burst  again  into  tears,  but  they  were  not 
like  Julie's  tears,  facile  and  easy. 

"  What  should  I  do  without  you  ?  You  make 
my  heart  ache;  how  have  I  failed,  how  am  I 
failing  ?  For  God's  sake  don't  reproach  me,  I  am 
trying,  although  the  task  is  almost  beyond  me.  I 
love  you  so,  you  are  the  heart  of  my  life.  But 
I  see  that  fellow  always !"  .  .  . 

These  were  the  things  John  might  have  said, 
but  his  actual  words  were : 

"  Poor  little  woman,  you  take  too  much  out  of 
yourself;  I'll  get  a  wash,  and  then  go  and  fetch 
you  your  soup.  Don't  get  hipped;  you'll  be  all 
right.  If  you  will  try  these  experiments  I  shall 


BACCARAT  205 

have  to  fit  a  gas  cooking-stove  up  in  the  sitting- 
room  for  you.  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  an 
idea?" 

"  Leave  the  door  open  whilst  you  dress,"  she 
called  out  to  him.  "  I  like  to  watch  you." 

But  her  head  ached,  and  she  felt  sick  and  giddy 
when  she  tried  to  sit  up. 

She  would  not  tell  him  this.  When  she  could 
eat  nothing,  for  even  the  sight  of  food  nauseated 
her,  and  he  suggested  sending  for  a  doctor,  she 
would  not  hear  of  it.  He  was  all  she  wanted; 
that  was  what  she  told  him.  It  was  he  who 
brought  her  the  dinner  she  could  not  eat. 

"  I  know  that  it  will  fall,  that  tray,"  she  said, 
and  smiled  at  him.  Because,  though  she  was  so 
pale,  and  could  eat  nothing,  she  smiled  at  him, 
he  was  moved  inexpressibly.  His  awkwardness 
was  an  old  joke  between  them ;  although  he  was 
so  big,  and  she  so  small,  a  tray,  a  toy,  china,  had 
always  been  safer  in  her  hands  than  his. 

"  Come,  it's  a  long  time  since  I've  dropped 
anything." 

As  if  in  illustration,  the  tray  actually  slipped, 


206  BACCARAT 

and  the  soup  was  spilt  on  the  napkin.  They  both 
laughed.  It  began  to  seem  as  if  the  spectres  were 
laid,  as  if  old  times  were  coming  back,  when  they 
laughed  together  at  John's  awkwardness.  She 
made  him  smoke  a  pipe  by  her  bedside.  The 
smell  of  it  did  her  good,  she  said.  It  seemed  to 
him  her  eyes  were  strained,  pathetic,  as  if  she 
missed  something,  asked  something,  as  if  she  were 
stricken  as  dumb  as  he. 

That  night  she  slept  in  his  arms.  Her  grati- 
tude and  her  clinging  struck  him  anew.  It  was 
his  love  she  had  been  missing,  for  the  want  of 
which  she  had  been  growing  pale  and  heavy  and 
frail.  He  vowed  himself  again  to  her  in  the 
watches  of  that  night;  for  he  loved  her,  and  his 
love  must  be  great  enough  to  blot  out  the  past. 


CHAPTER    XII 

JULIE  was  extraordinarily  quiet  and  subdued 
during  the  next  two  days.  John  felt  sure  that 
the  dinner  party  was  weighing  on  her  mind.  He 
threatened  to  send  the  whole  thing  in  from  a 
pastry-cook's — dinner  and  waiters  and  every- 
thing. That  was  what  the  Jacksons  did,  he  said. 

"  Ah !  but  their  dinners  are  nasty." 

She  made  a  moue  at  his  suggestion;  she  tried 
to  be  bright.  He  did  not  know  what  ailed  her. 
It  was  little  effort  to  him  to  put  the  past  away 
during  those  two  or  three  days,  for  he  was  occu- 
pied, through  all  the  hours  he  spent  at  home, 
in  trying  to  rally  and  rouse  her  from  the  depres- 
sion into  which  she  had  fallen. 

Marie,  too,  said  Madame  would  be  better  when 
the  dinner  party  was  off  her  mind.  John  ques- 
tioned Marie,  but  she  was  vague  and  unsatisfac- 
tory in  her  replies.  He  asked  her  how  it  would 
be  to  send  for  Dr.  Jones  without  consulting  her 

207 


208  BACCARAT 

mistress.  Perhaps  she  needed  a  tonic.  Marie 
must  give  het  a  pint  of  champagne  with  her 
lunch,  champagne  always  did  her  good.  Marie 
said,  quite  sensibly,  there  was  no  use  in  sending 
for  a  doctor  until  after  the  nth.  He  might  pre- 
scribe rest;  and  how  could  Madame  rest  when 
she  would  see  after  every  little  detail  herself, 
when  she  was  so  restless  that,  even  for  one  hour, 
one  little  hour  in  the  day,  she  would  not  lie 
down? 

Julie  rested  against  John's  knee  in  the  even- 
ings ;  that  was  what  she  loved,  she  told  him,  what 
did  her  good.  He  succeeded  for  these  few  days 
in  keeping  memory  at  bay,  keeping  nothing  in 
sight,  but  that  Julie  wanted  tenderness  and  care, 
and  that  he  was  there  to  give  it,  and  to  keep  his 
marriage  vows. 

Nothing  warned  him,  or  so  he  felt  afterwards, 
when  the  blow  fell. 

The  evening  of  the  nth  arrived  at  last.  In 
the  drawing-room,  John,  in  his  country-made 
dress  suit,  Julie,  in  black,  the  scarlet  poppies  in 
her  hair  and  on  her  breast  accentuating  the  pallor 


BACCARAT  209 

of  her  cheeks,  awaited  their  guests.  Half-past 
seven  was  the  hour,  and  punctually  the  rat-tat 
at  the  door  announced  the  first  arrival.  Aunt 
Sophia's  parlour-maid  had  been  borrowed  for  the 
occasion,  and  Aunt  Sophia  was  the  first  to  come. 
Her  house  was  not  five  minutes  away,  and  the 
evening  was  fine.  Therefore,  whilst  Marie  disen- 
tangled her  from  her  wraps  and  goloshes,  a  few 
moments  elapsed  before  Aunt  Sophia  was  dis- 
played in  the  full  splendour  of  her  purple  satin 
evening  dress,  with  the  ecru  lace  trimmings  and 
the  fine  passementerie. 

Aunt  Sophia  was  their  nearest  and  most  inti- 
mate relative.  It  was  she  with  whom  Julie  had 
stayed  before  her  marriage,  when  the  old  Baron 
had  been  buried  and  the  Sister  had  returned  to 
her  convent,  and  John  was  waiting  with  all  a 
lover's  impatience,  whilst  the  banns  were  being 
published.  At  first  Aunt  Sophia  had  disap- 
proved ;  the  girl  was  too  young,  too  foreign,  and 
a  Catholic.  But  there  was  a  warm  place  in  Aunt 
Sophia's  heart  for  the  nephew  she  had  reared,  her 
own  sister's  child. 

14 


210  BACCARAT 

"  All  right,  Aunt  Sophia ;  if  you  won't  help  me 
through,  I'll  go  round  to  Aunt  Maria's,"  John 
had  said,  diplomatic  for  once. 

She  had  been  up  in  arms  in  an  instant,  had 
trotted  round  to  Julie's  lodgings,  and  let  the  girl 
win  a  quick  way  to  that  place  beside  John  in  her 
heart.  She  had  mothered  her,  and  been  good  to 
her,  until  the  house  was  taken  and  almost  fur- 
nished, the  banns  three  times  called,  the  honey- 
moon fairly  started. 

Aunt  Sophia  had  put  the  house  in  order  for 
them  whilst  they  were  away,  and  afterwards  it  was 
she  who  helped  the  young  bride  through  the  first 
strangeness  of  her  housekeeping.  As  her  talents 
in  that  field  developed,  it  was  Aunt  Sophia,  no 
less  than  John,  who  became  proud  of  them.  She 
had  been  with  Julie  when  both  Genie  and  Jack 
were  born.  She  had  fought  many  battles  with 
Marie  over  orange-flower  water  and  peppermint, 
violet  powder  and  oatmeal  powder,  the  proper 
time  for  short-coating,  and  the  superiority  of 
baths  over  basins  for  washing  purposes.  They 
were  good  fighting  friends,  she  and  Marie,  Julie 


BACCARAT  211 

and  the  children  being  their  battle-ground.  No 
party  was  complete  without  Aunt  Sophia.  She 
had  lent  many  things  beside  her  parlourmaid,  ex- 
tra silver,  and  napery,  kitchen  utensils,  and  advice. 

"  Well,  John !  What  an  age  since  I've  seen 
you !  Not  a  moment  to  spare  for  your  old  aunt, 
I  suppose !  Up  to  your  neck  in  work ;  the  usual 
excuse,  eh?" 

He  submitted  to  be  kissed.  Julie  embraced 
her  warmly.  Aunt  Sophia  admired  the  drawing- 
room,  and  said  how  nice  the  house  looked!  She 
noticed  Marie's  new  cap,  "  fiddle-faddle,"  but  if  it 
pleased  Julie 

And  Julie  smiled  affectionately  at  her,  and  de- 
fended the  cap,  and  John  said  the  children  loved 
the  long  strings  to  play  horses  with.  And  then 
the  Travises  were  announced,  and  after  that  the 
Maidens,  and,  quickly  in  succession,  the  Smiths, 
and  the  Freshfields.  With  the  entrance  of  Dr. 
Jones  the  party  was  complete. 

They  were  all  delighted  to  meet  each  other. 
There  is  no  doubt  Julie  had  the  social  instinct, 
and  arranged  her  parties  well.  Long  before  the 


212  BACCARAT 

second  entree  was  reached,  the  talk  was  general. 
Everybody's  holiday  was  being  discussed  at  once, 
the  advantages  of  Bognor  over  Southsea  were 
weighed  and  balanced  for  the  hundredth  time. 
Southport  was  commended,  Cromer  condemned, 
each  from  the  point  of  view  of  some  special  land- 
lady, or  apartment,  or  local  tradesman.  The  en- 
tertainment was  going  to  be  a  success.  The 
guests  evidently  liked  their  dinner,  the  new  entree 
was  commented  upon  favourably.  The  table 
looked  charming,  Julie  had  decorated  it  with  late 
roses  and  brown  leaves,  autumnal  yet  light. 

But  shortly  after  the  new  entree  had  been 
served,  any  one  who  was  noting  the  face  of  the 
hostess  would  have  seen  an  alteration.  She  had 
been  brave,  and  had  resolutely  put  thought  and 
fear  from  her,  at  least  for  this  one  evening.  She 
would  not  give  way,  she  would  not  believe  what 
she  knew.  In  some  wild  unexplained  way,  John 
would  find  out  for  himself  what  was  amiss,  would 
say  he  was  not  angry  about  it.  She  would  tell 
him  after  to-night;  she  would  tell  him  her  great 
fear,  tell  him,  who  had  never  failed  her,  who  had 


BACCARAT  213 

said  he  had  forgiven  her,  what  it  was  that  ailed 
her. 

But  the  smell  of  the  food,  the  effort  to  talk, 
were  making  her  feel  so  faint  again!  She  must 
sit  still,  nobody  must  notice;  she  must  not  spoil 
her  dinner  party. 

Nobody  noticed  Julie's  pallor,  because  Aunt 
Sophia,  at  the  top  of  the  table,  was  absorbed  in 
explaining  to  Dr.  Jones  that  her  niece  had  seen 
after  everything  herself;  while  John,  entrenched 
behind  the  high  specimen  glasses  and  bowls  of 
flowers,  was  unable  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  face 
that  nevertheless  dominated  the  scene  for  him. 
Therefore  it  was  that  Julie's  struggle  to  disregard 
the  familiar  sensations  that  were  assailing  her, 
the  nausea  she  was  experiencing,  passed  un- 
noticed. 

Before  her,  now,  the  room  swayed,  the  conver- 
sation was  as  a  rising  and  ebbing  sea  of  noise, 
meaningless,  inchoate,  distant.  Her  friends,  in 
their  gay  evening  apparel,  their  smart  dresses  and 
jewellery,  their  evening  spirits  and  satisfaction, 
grew  dim,  and  faded,  and  failed.  The  table 


214  BACCARAT 

seemed  as  if  it  rocked.  She  made  her  struggle, 
her  brave  struggle.  It  was  only  when  she  began 
to  think  she  was  accomplishing  her  purpose,  that 
she  should,  after  all,  succeed  in  keeping  her  seat 
and  composure,  that  the  collapse  came.  The 
table  became  a  confusion  of  surprise  and  ejacu- 
lation. She  had  fainted  dead  away.  Aunt 
Sophia  was  quickly  by  her  side,  John  had  taken 
her  up  in  his  arms,  she  wras  borne  swiftly  from 
the  room. 

Now  she  found  herself  on  her  own  bed,  in  the 
quiet  of  her  own  bedroom.  She  had  made  a  faint 
effort  to  detain  John,  to  speak  to  him,  but  he  had 
been  persuaded  to  go  back  to  his  guests.  He 
sent  Dr.  Jones  up  to  her,  and  Aunt  Sophia,  too, 
remained,  but  John  had  gone. 

The  dinner  party,  which  was  to  have  been  such 
a  distinct  and  conspicuous  success,  broke  up 
almost  immediately.  John  was  unable,  perhaps 
he  was  even  unwilling,  to  keep  together  his  de- 
parting guests.  He  managed  that  they  should 
finish  their  dessert;  he  supplied  them  with  good 
cigars.  But,  in  truth,  he  was  not  sorry  when,  one 


BACCARAT  215 

after  another,  they  insisted  that,  if  Mrs.  Courtney 
was  ill,  it  was  better  the  house  should  be  left  in 
quiet. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  little  drawing- 
room,  when,  at  last,  he  was  alone;  and  the 
spectres  which  had  haunted  him,  the  fear  or 
trouble  which  had  been  in  the  background  of 
his  mind,  all  these  weeks,  since  his  return  from 
Paris,  took  now  definite  shape  and  form.  His 
wife  was  ill;  her  remorse  had  been,  after  all, 
greater  than  she  could  bear.  His  little  Julie, 
whom  he  had  left  for  three  unguarded  weeks  in 
a  foreign  gambling  hell,  who  had  emerged,  he 
thought,  he  hoped,  to  the  safety  of  her  own  home, 
had  been  wounded  too  bitterly,  wounded  perhaps 
unto  death.  Perhaps  unto  death!  The  words 
shook  him;  he  could  not  live  without  her,  he 
knew  that  well  enough.  And  he  had  not  been 
good  to  her !  All  these  weeks  there  had  been  an 
estrangement  between  them;  all  these  weeks,  in 
which  he  had  sometimes  hated,  loathed,  dis- 
trusted her,  or  himself;  all  these  weeks,  when  he 
had  allowed  that  incident,  of  which  he  had  de- 


216  BACCARAT 

cided  not  to  think,  nevertheless  to  thrust  itself  on 
him,  and  between  them,  she  had  been  sinking 
under  the  burden  of  the  remorse  with  which  he 
had  not  credited  her,  of  which,  with  all  his 
strength,  he  had  failed  to  relieve  her. 

The  man  was  moved  in  all  his  depths  as  he 
walked  up  and  down  that  narrow  drawing-room, 
waiting  to  hear  what  the  doctor  should  tell  him. 
Fear  for  her  shook  him,  and  the  love  and  the  ten- 
derness that  he  had  for  her  gushed  from  the  bit- 
terness of  his  heart,  and  made  it  sweet  again. 
If  only  Dr.  Jones  would  come  down,  and  tell  him 
her  illness  was  nothing,  not  heart  failure,  not  de- 
cline, nothing  organic,  that  it  was  a  mere  weak- 
ness, that  these  two  faints  she  had  had,  these  two 
attacks,  only  meant  that  she  must  rest,  that  she 
needed  care,  that  she  needed  love,  God  helping 
him,  he  would  give  her  both.  All  alone  in  that 
narrow  drawing-room,  he  flung  out  his  hands, 
and  vowed  again  that  he  would  give  her  all, 
everything.  For,  strangely  enough,  that  was  the 
shape  his  anxiety  took,  fears  that  her  remorse 
and  his  coldness  had  sapped  her  constitution  irrev- 


BACCARAT  217 

ocably !  Of  the  blow  that  was  to  fall  upon  him, 
of  what  they  would  tell  him,  he  had  no  prevision, 
made  no  preparation. 

Aunt  Sophia  came  down  beaming;  Dr.  Jones 
came  down,  rubbing  his  hands,  with  that  sly,  fur- 
tive, congratulatory  look  in  his  eyes  which  every 
husband  in  Southampton  knew  so  well.  It  said 
nothing  to  John  Courtney.  John's  voice  was 
very  hoarse  when  he  asked : 

"  Well,  doctor,  well !  It's  only  weakness,  I 
suppose  ?  She's  done  too  much — she  takes  every- 
thing so  seriously — and  she  wanted  to  make  a 
show  with  this  dinner.  She  has  been  overdoing 
it,  I  suppose?" 

And  Dr.  Jones  laughed. 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  about  it,"  he  said ;  "  nothing 
to  be  alarmed  at;  quite  the  usual  thing,  under 
the  circumstances.  Very  early  days,  very  early 
days  to  be  giving  dinner  parties,  and  standing  on 
her  feet  all  day  to  cook  them.  But  she  will  come 
to  harm,  she  will  be  a  lot  worse  before  she  is 
better."  He  chuckled,  and  John  would  have  liked 
to  strangle  him.  "  A  little  nux  vomica,  and 


218  BACCARAT 

taking  things  easy,  are  all  that  she  wants  for  the 
present.  After  eight  years  now !  Well,  well,  you 
are  all  alike,  you  husbands;  never  satisfied  when 
you  are  well  off.  I  should  have  thought  two 
children  were  all  any  man  needed;  just  a  boy  and 
a  girl-  -" 

"  And  to  think  she  never  said  a  word  to  me," 
said  Aunt  Sophia,  "  never  hinted  at  anything, 
and  I  have  seen  her  every  day  since  she  came 
back  from  Paris.  So  that  was  the  secret!  I 
suppose  that's  why  you  did  not  come  and  see 
me,  John?  She  was  afraid  you  would  give  it 
away.  But  that's  the  sort  of  secret  that  must 
out,  eh,  doctor?  Well,  I  suppose  you  will  want 
to  go  up  to  her;  Dr.  Jones  will  see  me  to  my 
door." 

"  Wait  a  minute,  wait  a  minute !"  said  poor 
John,  staggering,  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece 
for  support.  "  I  do  not  quite  understand.  What 
is  it  you  think  is  the  matter  with  my  wife?" 

"  As  if  you  didn't  know !"  laughed  Dr.  Jones. 
"  I  only  hope  it  won't  be  twins,  that's  all  the  harm 
I  wish  you." 


BACCARAT  219 

John  had  the  strength  to  say  nothing,  the 
strength  to  let  them  both  go,  without  realising 
what  it  was  they  had  told  him. 

But,  after  that,  his  strength  went,  and  it  was 
as  a  weak,  and  not  as  a  strong,  man  that  he 
cursed  the  God  that  made  him,  and  the  trouble 
that  had  come  upon  him,  that  he  was  as  one  half 
paralysed,  but  feeling  his  impotent  agony,  and 
was  unable  for  many  hours  to  do  more  than  look 
speechlessly  at  the  cup  that  he  must  drain. 

Of  all  that  had  haunted  him,  this  thing  had 
never  been  among  his  fears.  He  had  forgiven 
her,  he  had  set  himself  to  forget,  and  it  had  been 
impossible  to  forget.  But  now  it  seemed  to  him 
that  this  was  why  they  had  mocked  at  him. 
Again  he  saw  the  spectres  with  which  he  had 
been  confronted,  in  the  watches  of  the  night,  the 
demons  of  jealousy  and  hatred  that  had  dogged 
his  days.  And  now  this  new  horror  was  upon 
him,  this  horror  which  would  have  the  smile,  the 
satirical  smile,  of  that  yellow  Belgian,  with  his 
waxed  moustache,  and  his  black  goatee,  and  his 
tobacco-stained  fingers,  who  had  stood  under  the 


220  BACCARAT 

chandelier,  in  that  tawdry  French  hotel  sitting- 
room,  and  had  taken  money  from  him,  had  taken 
money  from  him,  and  had  slunk  away,  smiling, 
leaving  this.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER    XIII 

FOR  the  first  hour  or  two  John  was  stunned, 
he  was  without  coherent  thought  or  power  of 
reason.  The  servant  came  in  and  drew  the  blinds, 
and  made  up  the  fire.  She  glanced  curiously  at 
John,  a  huddled  figure,  staring  into  the  flaming 
coals,  murmuring  to  himself. 

"A  cursed — cursed  fool!"  she  thought  she 
heard  him  say.  She  could  not  know  that  it  was 
of  himself  he  was  speaking.  Marie  came  down 
presently;  perhaps  she,  knowing  so  much  more 
than  any  one  else,  got  nearer  to  the  heart  of  the 
situation.  Anyway,  she  left  him  undisturbed, 
and  managed  that  the  confusion  of  the  dinner 
party,  of  the  dismantled  house,  should  not  ap- 
proach the  drawing-room,  where  he  was  left  to 
sit,  without  question,  by  the  dying  fire,  in  the 
chilly  evening,  far  into  the  night. 

But  presently,  finding  his  thoughts  growing  no 
clearer,  his  head  no  less  confused,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  it  was  the  house  which  was  stifling  him, 

221 


222  BACCARAT 

the  house  grown  hateful,  and  holding.  .  .  .  Oh, 
God!  what  was  it  that  it  held? 

He  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  he  could  not 
think  clearly,  but  he  knew  what  it  was  that  the 
house  held.  He  burst  out  crying  like  a  woman, 
stumbling  down  the  pathway,  out  of  the  gate, 
hurrying  away  from  what  dogged  him.  He 
walked  fast,  but  it  walked  with  him.  And  all  the 
way  he  went  he  was  crying,  not  as  a  man  cries, 
but  as  a  woman.  This  was  the  hour  of  his  weak- 
ness, he  was  all  undone,  he  could  not  face  what 
had  come  upon  him. 

Past  the  harbour,  near  where  the  lights  of  the 
town  grow  dim  among  the  shadows  of  moaning 
sea  and  moonless  sky,  he  came  back  a  little  to 
himself.  He  had  flung  himself  down  on  the 
stones  of  the  beach,  and  now  found  himself 
shamed  by  his  scalding  eyes,  and  trembling 
limbs,  and  panting  breath. 

The  smirking  doctor,  Aunt  Sophia!  What 
would  they  make  of  his  words,  his  looks?  But 
he  had  said  nothing,  surely  he  remembered  he 
had  said  nothing. 


BACCARAT  223 

What  a  cursed,  cursed  fool  he  had  been,  dream- 
ing of  playing  Providence,  playing  God!  He 
ought  to  have  brought  the  children  back  from 
Cabourg  to  Southampton,  and  left  the  wanton 
with  her  lover! 

And  then  he  bit  his  lip  through,  as  he  thought 
of  his  Julie,  and  of  such  a  word  in  such  connec- 
tion. He  was  weak  again,  the  tears  rained  from 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  woman,  burning  him,  for 
his  heart  was  full  of  her.  The  phrase  had  made 
his  anguish  molten. 

Words,  love  words,  and  caresses,  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  early  married  life,  and  her  youth, 
and  all  he  had  had  to  be  to  her,  came  over  him 
all  at  once;  and  he  buried  his  face  away  from 
sky  and  sea,  and  writhed  on  the  beach,  biting 
into  the  very  stones  for  anguish,  praying  for 
death.  It  was  an  unbearable  trouble  that  had 
come  upon  him. 

Once,  once  only,  in  his  schoolboy  days,  he  had 
been  flogged  by  the  Head;  and  it  was  an  injus- 
tice. After  the  punishment  was  over,  not  a  light 
one,  he  would  have  turned  away,  sullenly,  silently. 


224  BACCARAT 

The  Head  had  resented  his  sullenness,  and  his 
silence. 

"  Ah !  you  may  sulk,  John  Courtney,"  he  had 
said ;  "  but  you  won't  rub  out  what  I've  given 
you." 

He  felt  again  the  bitter,  impotent  rage,  the 
sense  of  personal  pollution  and  degradation,  the 
cruelty  of  the  injustice  he  had  not  been  able  to 
fight,  the  additional  insult  of  the  words.  To- 
night he  felt  again  the  burning  and  smart  of  the 
rod.  But  to-night  it  was  in  that  exquisitely  ten- 
der and  sacred  recess  in  his  heart,  where  he  had 
kept  his  sentiment  for  the  Courvoisiers,  and  all 
that  neared  poetry  in  him,  that  he  felt  it.  The 
consciousness  of  physical  degradation  was  com- 
mon to  both  punishments.  It  turned  his  heart  to 
water. 

"  You  may  writhe,  John  Courtney,  but  you 
won't  rub  this  out,"  he  repeated  to  himself.  His 
life  was  over.  Strong  and  sane  and  healthy  man 
though  he  was,  he  saw  only  a  gleam  of  bright- 
ness on  the  coward's  way — the  way  of  suicide. 
He  could  not  face  what  was  before  him,  it  was 


BACCARAT  225 

worse  than  death.  He  let  himself  dwell  on  the 
thought  of  suicide,  as  the  night  wore  on  to  grey 
dawn  and  cold,  as  his  reasoning  powers  grew 
numb  and  ever  number,  and  only  his  pain  was 
clear. 

She  would  bear  a  child,  it  would  be  the  child  of 
the  Belgian  croupier.  It  was  impossible  for  him 
to  have  any  doubt  or  illusion,  nor  was  it  possible 
that  she  should  have  any.  Then,  in  an  uncon- 
trollable spasm,  it  came  to  him  that  she  must  have 
known  all  the  time  how  it  was  with  her,  that  the 
Sceur  de  Charite,  and  the  French  doctor,  Julie 
herself,  all  had  been  in  the  conspiracy  to  make  a 
fool  and  cuckold  of  him.  He  could  not  bear  it, 
no  man  could  bear  it.  He  must  get  out  of  it. 
He  had  been  a  fool  not  to  see  it  at  once,  three 
months  ago.  He  must  clear  out,  a  man  must 
keep  his  own  self-respect.  When  he  had  been 
made  a  cuckold,  and  a  laughing  stock,  by  a  fellow 
like  that  Diderot — he  could  still  see  him  smiling 
— there  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  to  clear  out  and 
leave  it  to  them,  to  her  and  her  lover! 

Julie's  lover! 

15 


226  BACCARAT 

How  his  head  went  down  in  anguish !  He 
would  get  back  to  the  house  and  cut  his  throat. 
He  thought  drearily  that  he  was  a  strong  fellow, 
and  must  cut  deep.  He  would  get  back  to  the 
house,  to  the  drawing-room,  he  need  not  go 
through  the  bedroom  to  it  ...  he  shuddered  as 
he  thought  of  seeing  his  wife,  facing  her,  he  could 
not  go  through  a  scene  with  Julie.  He'd  have  to 
strop  his  razor  well,  to  cut  deep;  he  would  be 
glad  to  be  out  of  it.  A  sense  of  relief  came  to 
him  at  the  thought  of  being  out  of  it,  free  from 
the  pain  that  gnawed  at  him. 

And  because  of  that  throb  of  relief,  that  pros- 
pect of  deliverance,  that  one  clean  cut  which  would 
ease  him,  his  mind  took  a  leap  forward. 

There  would  be  a  scandal  in  the  town.  They 
would  ask  why  had  John  Courtney  cut  his  throat, 
honest  John  Courtney,  whom  they  had  known  all 
their  lives,  whose  accounts  were  in  order,  whose 
business  was  flourishing. 

And  the  answer?  The  answer  would  recoil 
upon  her. 

Well!   he  was  glad.     With  his  pulses  taking 


BACCARAT  227 

that  sudden  bound,  a  cruelty,  a  desire  for  her 
suffering,  came  to  him.  She  deserved  it,  she  had 
used  him  cruelly. 

Poor  Julie,  poor  little  Julie!  the  hardness  to- 
wards her,  the  desire  for  her  suffering,  had  not 
lasted  through  one  beat  of  his  generous  heart.  In 
that  beat  he  saw  her  position,  if  he  should  choose 
the  coward's  way,  and  his  own  freedom ! 

It  was  enough  for  John  Courtney  to  see  that  it 
was  the  coward's  way,  to  know,  in  a  sickening 
recoil  from  that  bound  of  his  pulse,  that  it  was 
not  the  way  for  him.  He  had  his  place  to  hold, 
his  work  to  do,  his  children  to  rear.  Oh!  God! 
how  cruel  it  was,  how  cruel!  He  would  have  to 
stay,  and  see  it  out.  He  couldn't  shuffle  off,  like 
a  cur,  and  leave  her  alone,  and  his  children  un- 
protected, getting  out  of  his  responsibilities  be- 
cause it  was  easier  than  facing  them. 

When  he  realised  this  the  night  was  already 
far  spent.  He  was  wretchedly  cold,  and  ex- 
hausted; he  got  up  from  the  stones,  and  slowly, 
weariedly,  began  to  retrace  his  way  homeward. 
Only  the  word  was  a  travesty,  a  mockery. 


228  BACCARAT 

He  looked  ten  years  older  by  the  time  he  had 
regained  his  own  door,  his  grey  face  was  no 
longer  young  under  his  grey  hair.  It  was  a 
miserable  face,  the  grief  of  the  world  was  upon 
it.  The  very  latch  of  the  gate,  the  very  sound  of 
the  gravel  crunching  under  his  feet,  were  laden 
with  a  thousand  unbearable  memories.  It  was 
there  he  had  brought  her  as  a  bride;  through 
that  gate  they  had  carried  the  children  to  their 
christening.  Later,  they  had  run  to  meet  him, 
and  she  had  run  to  meet  him. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

DR.  JONES,  no  wiser  than  the  majority  of 
country  practitioners,  having  found  Julie  tear- 
ful, hysterical,  with  a  rapid  pulse,  and  symptoms 
of  great  agitation,  had  prescribed  twelve  grains 
of  trional  in  addition  to  the  nux  vomica  of  which 
he  had  spoken,  he  had  even  administered  it.  The 
mild  soporific  had  had  its  quick  effect ;  Julie  had 
fallen  into  a  troubled  unconsciousness,  and  she 
did  not  wake  to  miss  her  John,  until  the  gate  had 
clicked  familiarly  behind  him,  and  his  lagging 
step  was  on  the  stairs.  Then  she  called  out: 
"  Is  that  you,  John  ?  John,  I  want  you,  quick !" 
To  her  in  that  drowsy  awakening,  nothing  had 
altered  since  the  previous  night,  when  she  had 
slept  in  his  arms.  Whilst  they  were  in  Paris  he 
had  forgiven  her  and  bade  her  forget;  she  had 
been  unhappy  at  times  because  she  could  not  yet 
quite  obey  him,  unhappy  that  this  fear,  possibility, 
certainty,  which  had  come  upon  her  gradually, 
would  make  it  more  difficult,  harder,  for  them 

229 


230  BACCARAT 

both.  It  had  not  entered  her  head,  however,  to 
doubt  that  he  would  keep  his  word.  Neither  did 
she  realise,  nor  had  she  even  the  capacity  to 
realise,  what  he  was  going  through.  It  was  not 
her  fault  that  she  only  loved,  and  never  under- 
stood, his  depths. 

Now  she  had  awoke  in  distress  and  discomfort, 
and  it  was  her  ten-year  habit  to  cry  to  him  in  her 
need. 

The  drug,  or  her  condition,  or  the  fact  that  she 
had  gone  to  bed  too  soon  after  her  dinner,  made 
her  feel  ill  again  and  faint;  or  she  had  been 
awakened,  perhaps,  too  suddenly,  by  the  sound  of 
his  step,  unwontedly  heavy.  She  cried  out  to 
him. 

Mechanically,  with  the  grief  of  the  world  in 
his  face,  he  went  to  her  at  the  call. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,  how  late  you  are !" 

The  blinds  were  down,  and  the  drug  still  held 
her,  she  could  not  see  his  face,  and  his  lagging 
step  might  be  the  illusion  of  the  sleeping  draught, 
she  was  confused  with  it. 

"Give  me  some  water,  dear;    I'm  thirsty  and 


BACCARAT  231 

faint.  My  heart  is  beating  so  fast.  I've  been 
asleep,  I  think,"  she  said,  and  closed  her  eyes 
again,  whilst  he  went  for  the  water.  He  had  said 
nothing,  but  that  was  John's  way. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked,  when  he  was 
there  again.  "  I'm  getting  better,  dear,  don't  be 
frightened;  I'm  sorry  I  called  out,  did  I  frighten 
you?  I'm  glad  you  came.  I  was  so  thirsty." 
John  was  holding  the  glass  of  water  to  her  lips. 
She  had  noticed  nothing  strange  in  his  face,  and 
it  did  not  seem  strange  for  him  to  be  tending  her ; 
he  had  done  it  for  so  many  years. 

"  Thank  you,  you  darling  John !"  she  mur- 
mured, when  she  had  drunk;  she  was  still  be- 
twixt sleep  and  consciousness. 

"  Lie  down  beside  me.  I'm  cold  when  you  are 
not  there,"  she  said  drowsily. 

She  was  asleep  before  he  had  answered. 

How  marvellous  that  she  could  sleep!  Had 
she  but  a  kitten's  soul,  and  not  a  woman's,  that 
she  could  sleep  on,  let  him  tend  her,  then  sleep 
again,  carrying  that  secret  about  with  her!  He 
stood  watching  her  for  a  few  moments  after  he 


232  BACCARAT 

had  given  her  the  water,  and  she  had  smiled  at 
him,  opening  her  brown  eyes  sleepily,  letting  the 
lids  drop  over  them  soon.  And,  as  he  stood, 
watching  her  in  her  sleep,  the  burden  she  was 
bearing  became  his,  even  as  she  was  his;  what 
could  he  do?  a  man  cannot  evade  his  responsi- 
bilities. 

He  turned  drearily  into  his  dressing-room ;  the 
future  was  black  before  him.  But  he  was  tired 
out,  he  could  think  no  more  to-night. 

"  I'm  cold  when  you're  not  there,"  she  had  said. 
Well!  he  could  lie  by  her  side,  it  was  no  odds 
one  way  or  another,  he  would  have  to  go  through 
with  it.  Whether  her  easy  acceptance,  her  re- 
liance upon  him,  made  it  easier  was  beside  the 
question. 

Anyway  he  was  tired  out.  He  undressed,  he 
lay  down  beside  her,  and  sleep  mocked  and  jeered 
at  him.  "  You  can't  rub  this  out,  John  Court- 
ney," was  the  burden  of  his  uneasy  dreams;  his 
long  limbs  writhed  in  his  sleep,  his  back  ached, 
and  he  was  degraded  and  suffering  in  his  restless 
slumber. 


BACCARAT  233 

"I  must  have  caught  cold;  what  a  horrible 
night  I've  had !"  was  his  first  thought  on  waking 
the  next  morning;  for  his  limbs  were  stiff,  and 
his  eyeballs  ached,  and  he  felt  languid  and  de- 
pressed. By  the  time  he  had  remembered,  she 
was  looking  at  him;  her  eyes  were  half  afraid, 
half  plaintive,  but  when  she  would  have  moved 
nearer  to  him,  he  turned  his  back,  pretending  to 
sleep  again ;  he  felt  he  must  have  time. 

That  trional  had  not  been  very  good  treatment. 
Julie  had  awoke  with  a  nausea  and  headache,  not 
very  clear  about  what  had  happened  the  night 
before.  Of  John's  late  return,  of  her  call  to 
him,  and  his  tending  her,  she  remembered  nothing. 
But  gradually  to  her,  too,  the  events  of  last  night 
came  back,  with  some  shivering  prescience,  some 
doubt  of  his  mood. 

"John!" 

Nothing  was  altered;  it  was  not  as  if  he  had 
not  known.  He  must  not  turn  from  her. 

"John!" 

She  had  only  her  woman's  wiles. 

"  Why  do  you  turn  your  back  ?    I  want  to  rest 


234  BACCARAT 

my  head  against  your  shoulder.  It  is  not  soft, 
your  shoulder" — she  laid  a  little  kiss  against  it, 
tenderly,  because  she  had  said  it  was  not  soft — 
"  but  it  is  restful  to  lay  my  head  there." 

She  began  to  murmur  against  his  ear. 

"  Oh !  John !  don't  be  angry  with  me,  I  can't 
bear  it  if  you  are  angry.  Be  sorry  for  me  still ;  it 
is  no  better  for  me,  because  now  it  is  so  bad  for 
you.  It  is  not  that  I  have  been  wicked  again. 
And,  John,  you  said  you  forgave  me,  and  that  I 
must  forget.  John,  last  night  you  .  .  .  kissed 
me,  John;  and  the  night  before.  That  meant 
you  had  forgotten.  And  I  was  unhappy  ...  all 
the  time  I  was  unhappy.  I  said  '  If  it  is  this,  this 
that  I  fear,  he  cannot  forgive,  or  forget.'  And 
then  I  say  to  myself,  '  No !  Julie,  no,  you  must 
not  be  afraid;  your  John,  he  always  keeps  his 
word.  What  he  said  did  not  mean  only  if,  if 
nothing  has  happened  he  will  forgive  you.  John 
knows  what  has  happened ;  and  he  said,  '  I  for- 
give you  .  .  .  you  are  the  light  of  my  eyes.' ' 

"Oh!   shut  up." 

He  rolled  out  of  bed,  away  from  her  voice,  and 


BACCARAT  235 

her  breath  that  was  about  him.  He  slammed  the 
door  of  his  dressing-room.  His  hand  trembled 
when  he  set  about  shaving,  he  cut  himself,  and 
cursed  his  awkwardness. 

The  walls  were  thin  in  that  jerry-built  South- 
ampton house.  He  heard  Marie  go  to  Julie,  and 
he  heard  her  tell  Marie  that  her  head  ached,  that 
she  would  not  get  up  that  morning.  He  heard 
the  children  enter,  and  exclaim  that  she  was  not 
yet  dressed,  and  begin  to  question  her  about  the 
dinner  party. 

Then  came  whispering,  and  the  usual  knock  at 
his  door.  "  No,  they  couldn't  come  in  yet,"  he 
answered  shortly. 

But  now  there  was  Genie  pleading  to  him 
through  the  door. 

"  May  I  give  you  your  breakfast,  Daddy,  just 
this  once?  Mumsey's  head  is  bad,  and  she  cannot 
get  up.  I  want  to  pour  out  your  coffee  instead. 
May  I?" 

And  through  the  door  he  called  back: 

"  Oh !  yes,  anything  you  like.  Leave  me  alone, 
can't  you,  while  I'm  shaving?" 


236  BACCARAT 

"  He  said, '  Yes,'  Mumsey,  he  said, '  Yes.'  And 
I  may  pour  out  his  breakfast,  just  as  if  I  were 
grown  up." 

And  he  heard  her  dancing  her  joy  lightly  about 
the  room.  With  what  a  web  of  little  circumstance 
a  man's  life  is  bound  about!  He  did  not  know 
what  to  say  to  Julie,  or  how  to  say  it.  He  finished 
shaving,  and  as  he  dressed  he  heard  Julie  talking : 

"  No,  no !  Marie,  they  do  not  tire  me,  I  love 
them  here.  Oh!  yes,  Jack,  of  course  there  were 
some  sweets  saved  for  you,  but  no  crackers.  We 
don't  have  crackers  for  a  grown-up  party,  only  at 
Christmas,  and  this  is  not  Christmas.  Not  for  a 
long  time,  it  won't  be  Christmas  for  a  long  time. 
Of  course,  I  shall  be  better  by  then.  Daddy  will 
make  me  better.  He  will  come  and  kiss  me 
good-morning.  He  will  put  his  hand  on  my  fore- 
head, like  he  did  on  yours,  you  remember,  Genie, 
when  you  went  out  to  tea,  and  ate  something, 
and  were  so  sick.  You  said  it  made  you  better 
when  Daddy  put  his  hand  on  your  head.  Ask 
him  to  put  his  hand  on  mine." 

"  Come  in  to  Mumsey,  Daddy,  as  soon  as  ever 


BACCARAT  237 

you've  finished  shavin'  and  dressin'  and  gettin' 
ready;"   the  shrill  voices  piped  at  once. 

"  Oh,  no !  no !  not  now,"  she  called  them  back 
from  the  dressing-room  door.  "  Don't  worry- 
Daddy,  don't  fidget  him.  Your  little  hand  will 
do,  Jack,  though  it  is  so  hot;  it's  rather  sticky, 
too." 

Then  the  door  of  the  dressing-room  opened. 

"  Come  along  if  you're  coming,"  he  said  to 
Genie,  striding  through  the  room. 

She  would  not  entreat  him,  except  with  her 
eyes.  He  fumbled  with  the  handle  of  the  door 
impatiently. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said  again  to  Genie.  "  I'm 
late  this  morning." 

"John!" 

Her  eyes  drew  him. 

"Can't  you  see  I'm  late?" 

"  My  head  aches  so." 

She  was  entreating  him  only  with  her  eyes. 

"  Well!   take  care  of  yourself." 

Irresolutely  he  stood  there  a  moment,  not  look- 
ing at  her. 


238  BACCARAT 

"  You  haven't  kissed  her  '  good-morning.' 
You  haven't  put  your  hand  on  her  head,  you 
haven't  done  '  nuffing,'  "  piped  out  Jack,  who  was 
on  the  bed  beside  her,  whose  eyes  were  large  with 
wonder,  that,  seeing  Mumsey  ill,  Daddy  was 
leaving  her  so  unsympathetically. 

He  came  back  then,  he  put  his  hand  on  her 
forehead,  awkwardly  enough. 

"  My  hand  is  shaky  this  morning.  I  think  I 
caught  cold  last  night.  You'd  better  not  get  up 
at  all  to-day.  You'll  be  all  right  if  you  lie  still." 

She  caught  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  passionately. 

"  Oh !   John !   how  good  you  are,  how  good !" 

What  could  a  man  do? 

"  That  will  do,"  he  said  gruffly ;  "  don't  make 
a  fuss." 

But  he  stooped  and  kissed  her,  with  the  children 
staring  at  him. 

"She's  better  now."  "Is  she  better  now?" 
they  piped  in  chorus.  Her  eyes,  her  cheek,  were 
wet  with  tears. 

"  Remember  the  children  are  in  the  room, 
Julie." 


BACCARAT  239 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  still  kept  his  hand 
against  her  cheek.  "  I  am  glad  Genie  may  pour 
out  your  coffee.  Don't  forget,  Genie,  that  he 
likes  three  lumps  of  sugar,  and  that  you  must 
not  speak  until  he  has  read  his  paper." 

"  Not  much  paper  for  me  this  morning.  It's 
a  quarter  to  nine  already." 

"  But  you'll  come  back  to  me  this  evening? 
You'll  come  back  ?" 

"  Where  else  should  I  go?" 

He  wanted  to  get  away,  out  of  it,  he  hated  a 
scene.  His  words  were  impatient,  his  tone  was 
rough ;  but  he  had  put  his  hand  on  her  forehead, 
he  had  kissed  her.  Her  eyes  were  soft  with 
gratitude. 

"  I  am  stupide,  stupide,  this  morning.  Where 
should  you  go?" 

She  put  her  arm  about  Jack  on  the  bed  and 
drew  him  closer  to  her. 

"  As  if  Daddy  would  leave  his  wife,  his  little 
ones  alone,  as  if  he  would  forget  he  loves  us. 
Run  along,  Genie,  be  a  little  woman.  Jack  will 


240  BACCARAT 

stay  with  his  Mumsey  until  it  is  time  to  go  to  the 
gate." 

Genie  poured  out  her  father's  coffee,  as  she  had 
been  told.  She  was  a  demure,  sweet  little  maiden, 
with  soft  dark  eyes  like  her  mother's,  and  dainty 
echoing  ways.  The  coffee-pot  was  too  heavy  for 
her.  John  watched,  over  his  paper,  how  the 
colour  flushed  her  cheek,  how  near  tears  were  to 
her  eyes,  when  "  it  would  not  lift !"  He  went 
round  to  help. 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  me  ?"  he  said. 

"  Mumsey  told  me  not  to  speak  until  you'd 
finished  the  paper,"  was  the  wondering  answer. 
Had  he  not  heard? 

She  was  careful  of  his  minor  comforts,  he  said 
to  himself,  bitterly.  He  was  filled  with  uncer- 
tainty and  indecision  this  morning,  and  the  win- 
nowing moments  broke  ground,  now  soft,  now 
hard.  All  his  points  of  view,  in  this  trouble  that 
beset  him,  were  unstable  and  shifting. 

Something  was  owing  to  his  relations,  to  the 
family.  Ought  he  to  father  this  bastard,  and  rear 
it  with  his  clean-bred  sturdy  children?  He  was 


BACCARAT  241 

only  a  burgher,  of  the  middle  classes,  but  he  was 
not  without  his  pride  of  race.  There  would  be 
time  enough,  perhaps,  when  the  child  came,  to 
think  of  that.  Providence  might  so  easily  inter- 
vene on  his  behalf.  There  were  such  things  as 
accidents;  they  were  early  days  yet,  and  if  it 
went  on — why,  even  then  it  might  not  be  born 
alive.  And  she  was  right,  nothing  had  altered, 
she  had  not  been  wicked  again !  How  he  winced 
from  the  phrase.  The  world  was  so  black  about 
him  that  nothing  seemed  clear,  not  even  the  path 
of  duty.  But  he  realised  that  his  forgiveness  had 
been  for  the  act,  that  the  consequences  he  had  not 
foreseen  could  not  release  him  from  his  obliga- 
tion. 

That  waiting  time  for  John  during  the  next  few 
months  may  be  imagined.  Julie's  physical  con- 
dition made  the  consideration  of  his  conduct  to- 
wards her  beyond  argument.  He  had  to  be  gen- 
tle, as  affectionate  as  he  could,  to  tell  her  again 
and  again,  as  curtly,  or  as  kindly  as  he  was  able, 
that  he  had  not  changed  his  mind,  that  he  had 
forgiven  her. 

16 


242  BACCARAT 

It  did  not  need  Aunt  Sophia,  nor  Dr.  Jones,  .to 
tell  him  that  Julie  was  not  bearing  her  burden 
well.  Perhaps  it  was  her  recent  illness,  perhaps 
it  was,  after  all,  the  love  ingrained  in  her  for  him 
that  took  unconscious  hurt  from  his  hurt.  What- 
ever the  cause,  the  result  was  to  depress  her 
vitality.  Every  symptom  of  her  condition  was 
aggravated.  Her  face  grew  pitifully  small  and 
thin,  and  her  languor,  too,  was  pitiful.  But  al- 
ways she  told  him  she  felt  better,  stronger,  that 
she  would  soon  be  all  right,  that  it  was  only  the 
early  months  that  were  bad.  Always  she  strug- 
gled, when  he  was  there,  to  make  light  of  her 
discomforts,  to  reassure  him,  to  chatter,  as  of  old, 
to  be  gay  and  bring  smiles  to  his  dull  eyes  and 
set  mouth.  She  watched  him  wistfully;  she 
could  not  refrain  from  the  pleading  that  racked 
him. 

The  tension  between  them  was  accentuated  by 
his  dumbness,  and  yet  he  tried  hard  to  disguise 
from  her  what  it  was  costing  him.  He  felt  things 
would  be  better  if  she  would  only  leave  him  alone, 
and  let  things  drift.  Once,  he  went  so  far  as  to 


BACCARAT  243 

break  a  little  through  his  reserve  and  ask  Dr. 
Jones  if  something  couldn't  be  done,  if  it  couldn't 
be  got  rid  of. 

"  As  she  was  so  ill,"  he  finished,  feebly  enough. 

Dr.  Jones  said,  with  immense  surprise,  that 
there  was  no  possible  excuse  for  such  interference. 
He  rallied  John  on  his  anxiety,  and  said  this 
might  be  his  first  experience,  instead  of  his  third. 

John  turned  abruptly  on  his  heel;  what  was 
the  good  of  talking?  He  could  hardly  bear  her 
wistful,  pleading  eyes;  he  could  hardly  bear  to 
see  her  ill  and  suffering,  and  to  know  the  cause. 
The  man  lived  in  hell.  He  had  no  rest  by  night 
or  day ;  his  conflicting  feelings  tore  and  lacerated 
him.  He  was  as  one  under  the  torture  the 
Chinese  have  made  their  own.  Drops  of  water, 
drops  of  vitriol,  the  victim  never  knowing  which 
would  fall.  Her  sweetness,  her  feebleness — his 
pity,  his  revolt  burnt  him  continually. 

There  were  times  when  he  hated  her.  He 
could  not,  at  these  times,  separate  her  from  the 
man  who  had  been  her  lover,  the  man  who  had 
mocked  him  in  the  tawdry  sitting-room  of  the 


244  BACCARAT 

French  hotel.  What  had  occurred  between  them  ? 
How  was  it ? 

He  had  asked  her  nothing,  questioned  her  not 
at  all.  Now,  sometimes,  a  thousand  agonies  of 
curiosity  tore  at  him,  and  he  wanted  to  know 
how  it  had  happened,  what  had  happened.  He 
saw  pictures  that  nearly  drove  him  from  his 
balance.  Had  she,  had  she  been,  sweet  to  him? 
It  was  maddening  to  think  of  it. 

He  could  neither  feel  nor  think  delicately;  in 
hell,  his  thoughts  were  of  the  damned.  The  sweat 
broke  out  on  his  forehead,  sometimes,  when  he 
was  alone,  and  his  hands  would  clench,  as  if  for 
murder. 

He  shut  himself  up  in  his  reserve,  he  felt  him- 
self cut  off  from  brotherhood.  His  secret  became 
like  an  iron  mask,  dividing  him  from  humanity. 

No  one  knew  what  ailed  him ;  his  clients  eyed 
him  curiously,  perhaps  suspiciously.  He  felt,  and 
could  not  protect  himself,  that  he  was  being  talked 
about,  that  presently  his  credit  might  suffer. 
Doggedly  he  went  on  from  day  to  day. 

In  the  beginning  he  had  hoped  she  might  mis- 


BACCARAT  245 

carry,  that  some  accident  would  put  an  end  to 
the  intolerable  situation.  Now  all  he  could  hope 
was  that  the  child  would  be  born  dead,  would 
die.  .  .  . 

It  was  easy  for  a  baby  to  die.    More  than  once 
a  terrible  thought  assailed  him. 


CHAPTER    XV 

THE  temptation  of  that  assailing  thought  did 
not  lessen  as  the  days  went  on.  He  had  never 
been  an  imaginative  man,  but  as  fever  brings  de- 
lirium, so  did  suffering  bring  him  dreams. 

His  time  for  delicate  thinking  had  passed.  On 
the  rack  from  morning  until  night,  greyer  and 
older,  and  ever  more  taciturn,  that  with  which 
he  lived  seemed  to  become  embodied  in  Julie's 
altered  face  and  figure.  What  he  saw  was  the 
spirit  of  the  Belgian  croupier  fouling  his  home. 
He  had  impregnated  the  poor  woman  with  his 
seed,  and  until  she  was  free  from  it,  she  was  all 
deformed  and  tainted,  and  gradually  grew  hor- 
rible to  him. 

He  still  loved  her ;  that  is,  he  still  knew  that  if 
ever  the  old  Julie  were  restored  to  him,  the  old 
love  would  be  there  to  greet  her.  But  now,  it  was 
the  other  man  who  possessed  her.  The  estrange- 
ment between  them  was  very  slow  and  gradual. 

246 


BACCARAT  247 

Circumstances  favoured  his  being  able  to  keep 
his  feelings  partially  hidden  from  her.  As  far 
as  she  was  concerned,  he  had  not  much  with 
which  to  reproach  himself.  He  saw  that  she  had 
everything  she  needed ;  he  constantly  assured  her 
that  he  would  keep  all  his  promises;  he  never 
now  refused  her  a  caress,  or  the  words  for  which 
she  asked. 

Fortunately  Tom  Jarvis  paid  another  flying 
visit  to  England ;  this  time  his  headquarters  were 
in  Liverpool,  and  John  had  to  attend  him  there. 
During  John's  absence  Aunt  Sophia  shared  Julie's 
room,  for  it  was  not  deemed  well  that  she  should 
be  alone.  When  he  returned,  this  arrangement 
still  held  good.  John  got  a  little  peace  this  way. 
He  kept  out  of  his  wife's  sight  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. For  him,  the  air  about  her  was  tainted. 
Not  by  her,  but  by  that  which  she  carried.  She 
missed  him,  perhaps  less  because  she  had  much 
to  occupy  her;  she  had  little  garments  to  look 
out  and  get  ready,  embroider,  and  air.  Also  she 
must  be  a  little  gay,  making  subtle  efforts  to 
conceal  from  Aunt  Sophia,  perhaps  from  Marie 


248  BACCARAT 

too,  that  all  was  not  as  it  had  been  between  her 
and  her  John.  But  there  is  no  doubt  she  was 
nothing  like  as  unhappy  as  he.  She  was  full 
of  hope  for  the  future,  and  belief  in  his  love 
for  her;  and  strangely  enough,  too,  she  was  full 
of  tender  thought  for  what  was  coming. 

John  made  pretence  of  working  hard ;  he  went 
early  from  the  house,  came  home  late  from  the 
office,  found  excuse  for  business  journeys,  to 
Chatham,  Rochester,  London,  remaining  away 
upon  one  pretext  or  another,  now  a  week,  now 
a  fortnight,  counting  the  hours.  When  it  was 
once  over  he  would  feel  differently,  that  was  his 
only  gleam  of  hope.  It  would  not  live,  it  could 
not  live,  the  thing  was  too  cruel;  it  would  be 
born  dead.  And  when  it  was  over  he  would  feel 
differently,  about  her,  about  it,  about  everything. 

Julie,  because  she  wanted  to  conceal  the  extent 
of  her  sufferings,  because  she  grieved  for  him, 
and  wished  to  spare  him,  complained  less  and  less 
at  his  separation  from  her,  at  nights,  or  when  he 
went  on  his  business  journeys.  She  did  not  want 
to  have  to  dissimulate,  and  yet  she  must  perforce 


BACCARAT  249 

dissimulate  while  he  was  with  her,  so  that  he 
should  not  see  how  difficult  movement  was,  and 
how  persistent  were  her  discomforts.  She  had 
never  been  so  ill  before;  she  constantly  thought 
how  hard  it  was  for  John.  She  began  to  be 
almost  glad  when  his  grey  face  and  dull  eyes  and 
set  mouth  were  not  there;  began  to  be  glad  just 
to  lie  about  and  sleep,  when  sleep  was  possible, 
without  having  to  rouse  herself  to  say  "  dear 
John"  or  "  poor  John,"  or  try  to  find  talk  for 
him. 

And  when  he  looked  on  her,  sleeping,  with  di- 
shevelled hair,  and  face  grown  thin  and  yellow, 
moaning  a  little  sometimes,  his  hands  would 
clench,  and  a  spasm  contract  his  throat,  and  what 
he  wanted  to  do  would  become  clear  to  him,  clear 
as  the  red  dye  of  the  sky  at  setting  sun,  clear,  as 
men  see  clearly  when  their  eyes  are  bloodshot, 
and  their  hands  prickly  and  hot  with  the  desire 
to  kill. 

The  Belgian  was  out  of  his  reach,  but  his  seed 
was  here,  and  would  soon  burst  into  poisonous 
blossom.  Julie  would  be  released  from  that  which 


250  BACCARAT 

was  draining  her  life,  this  horrible  tentacle  thing 
that  held  her,  and  tortured  her,  but  which  must 
drop  from  her  soon. 

He  did  not  always  think  in  hyperbole.  The 
whirlwind  of  his  thoughts  grew  clear  sometimes. 
He  would  not  father  the  bastard  she  would  bear; 
nor  should  she  mother  it.  It  poisoned  the  house. 
It  was  not  only  she  who  felt  it ;  the  children  were 
ailing  all  that  summer  and  winter.  Possibly  they 
missed  the  care  that  had  always  enwrapped  them, 
Marie's  and  Julie's.  But  that  was  not  the  ex- 
planation which  John's  brooding  gave  him.  He 
allowed  himself  to  think  that  the  air  about  them 
was  tainted.  Poor  Julie,  in  bed,  or  on  the  sofa, 
breathed  the  corruption  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  that  man,  the  contamination  that  was  like 
a  curse  upon  the  house. 

In  his  office  John's  brain  acted  normally;  he 
could  understand  the  abstrusest  business  details, 
master  figures,  give  instructions  for  briefs  to 
counsel;  investigate,  and  decide  upon,  the  titles 
of  properties,  assignments,  leases,  surveys.  He 
conducted  his  life  normally,  went  to  church  with 


BACCARAT  251 

his  children  on  Sundays,  acknowledged  his  ac- 
quaintances, if  briefly,  yet  adequately;  he  even 
played  golf.  On  the  surface,  he  was  the  same 
John  Courtney  his  friends  had  always  known, 
only  a  trifle  more  taciturn,  a  great  deal  more  diffi- 
cult to  talk  to,  just  as  good  a  fellow,  if  he  were 
appealed  to  in  the  cause  of  charity  or  friendship, 
but  more  reserved,  less,  less  sociable,  they 
thought. 

John's  home  had  been  all  in  all  to  him  since  he 
married,  and  now  it  was  threatened.  That  is  the 
way  they  read  it,  those  surface-reading  friends 
of  John  Courtney.  They  read  that  his  wife  had 
been  ill  whilst  abroad,  that  she  had  had  hardly 
time  to  recover.  Perhaps  John  had  been  warned, 
and  disregarded  it,  there  is  a  certain  brutal  direct- 
ness of  thought,  and  even  action,  in  the  average 
husband;  and  some  of  them  thought  that  Julie 
Courtney's  present  condition  might  be  the  result 
of  his  disregard  of  medical  advice. 

There  were  those  among  John's  friends  who 
slapped  him  on  the  back,  genially,  and  told  him 
not  to  pull  such  a  long  face;  she'd  be  all  right, 


252  BACCARAT 

never  fear!  The  percentage  of  accidents  in  such 
cases  was  less  than  one  in  a  thousand!  There 
were  some  who  rallied  him  about  his  dejection, 
and  some  who  sympathised  with  it;  of  course, 
there  were  none  who  could  possibly  fathom  it. 

John  was  not  mad,  but,  under  his  taciturnity, 
beneath  the  burden  he  was  bearing  in  silence,  his 
moral  balance  shifted  a  little.  He  had  never  been 
an  imaginative  man,  he  had  only  seen  the  tangible 
things  about  him.  They  were  all  he  had  ever 
wanted  to  see.  But  now  it  seemed  to  him  that 
there  was  coming  to  fruition,  under  his  roof,  a 
poison  blossom  or  reptile,  a  living  exhalation, 
miasmic,  foul,  and  deadly.  It  was  the  only  time 
he  had  had  any  difficulty  in  defining  right  and 
wrong.  Of  course  it  would  die, — he  believed  in 
God  and  Providence,  and  a  man  cannot  live  even 
six  months  under  torture  without  hope,  without 
belief  that  it  will  cease.  But  if  it  should  not 
die?  .  .  . 

When  that  possibility  closed  upon  him  it  was 
no  longer  easy  to  divide  wrong  from  right. 

If  one  has  a  snake  in  one's  house,  one  ought  to 


BACCARAT  253 

put  one's  heel  upon  it,  stamp  upon  it.  One  ought 
not  to  wait  until  it  rears  its  adder  head,  hisses, 
spits,  and  darts  out  its  thin  venomous  tongue. 
John's  little  house,  John's  home,  was  full  of  the 
Belgian  croupier,  his  cringing,  his  shifty  eyes,  his 
unclean  crafty  hands. 

The  endless  months,  in  their  slow  malignant 
passing,  showed  each  one  darker  than  the  last. 

But  at  last  the  day  of  release  came,  the  day  of 
her  delivery.  It  was  all  set  about  with  common- 
place; both  environment  and  circumstance  were 
ordinary,  of  every  day  occurrence.  On  the  sur- 
face, all  that  was  going  forward  in  that  semi- 
detached villa  in  the  Mayo  Road,  was  that  which 
went  on  in  thousands  of  other  semi-detached  villas 
in  suburban  residences  in  Southampton  and  else- 
where. 

John  went  to  his  office  as  usual  that  morning. 
Aunt  Sophia  was  staying  in  the  house,  and  sent 
Genie  down  to  tell  him  not  to  disturb  his  wife; 
she  had  had  a  bad  night,  and  was  now  sleeping. 
Genie  remained  chattering  to  her  father  whilst 
he  drank  his  coffee  and  ate  his  haddock. 


254  BACCARAT 

"  And  how's  Jack  this  morning  ?  I  haven't 
heard  him  stumping  about.  What's  quieted 
him?" 

"  Oh !  Jack's  got  a  cold.  He  sneezed  when  he 
said  '  good-night'  to  Mumsey  last  night,  and  she 
said  he  should  have  breakfast  in  bed." 

"  Well !  that's  a  fine  game,  having  breakfast  in 
bed.  No  wonder  he  sneezed!  And  when  are 
you  going  to  follow  his  example?" 

"  I  don't  like  having  breakfast  in  bed ;  it  gets 
all  crumbly,  and  scratches  you.  I  like  coming 
down  to  breakfast  with  you.  Mustn't  I  have 
breakfast  with  you  to-morrow?  Do  say  I  may! 
Mumsey  says  I  am  to,  if  you  want  me  to — but 
not  if  I  fidget.  I  won't  fidget,  I  promise;  I 
didn't  fidget  that  once,  did  I  ?" 

"  Well,  well !  we'll  see  about  it  when  to-mor- 
row comes.  I'm  too  early  for  little  girls — no  time 
to  get  the  porridge  hot." 

"  I  like  bacon  best." 

"  Bacon !   do  you  ?     So  do  I." 

"  Then  may  we  have  it  to-morrow  ?"  the  child 
asked  eagerly. 


BACCARAT  255 

"  They  call  that  special  pleading  in  my  part  of 
the  world." 

John  was  less  unlike  his  old  self  than  usual  this 
morning.  To  hear  that  he  need  not  go  upstairs, 
to  ask  Julie  how  she  had  slept,  and  kiss  her,  was 
so  much  relief  for  him.  He  ate  his  breakfast  with 
more  appetite  because  of  that  message. 

Genie  trotted  down  the  path  with  him,  Jack 
blew  him  a  kiss  from  the  nursery  window;  both 
children  watched  his  long  legs,  his  broad  shoul- 
ders, until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

But  Julie  had  known,  even  when  that  message 
was  sent  him,  that  her  trouble  was  upon  her. 
Aunt  Sophia  and  Marie  knew  it  too.  Marie 
watched  from  the  window  until  John  was  out  of 
sight,  and  then  sent  Jane  in  all  haste  for  Dr. 
Jones,  and  for  the  nurse  whom  they  both  secretly 
thought  to  be  superfluous. 

If  Julie  had  sinned,  the  punishment  was  not 
withheld. 

All  day  long  she  suffered,  her  frail  body  was 
torn  with  fruitless  pain  that  came  and  went,  taking 
ever  with  it  some  small  portion  of  her  strength 


256  BACCARAT 

and  courage,  some  segment  of  her  power  of  re- 
sistance. 

From  dawn  until  twilight  she  was  tortured, 
until  the  damp  dews  of  utter  exhaustion  were 
on  her  brow,  and  it  seemed  not  possible  for 
one  so  to  suffer,  and  yet  live.  They  could  not 
help  her;  they  could  only  watch  with  her,  and 
try  to  brace  her  spirits  up  to  her  great  need.  Her 
spirit  did  not  fail  until  just  the  end,  until  the 
merciful  drug,  kept  for  her  extremity,  gave  her 
oblivion  in  the  last  struggle  of  all.  Through  all 
that  dreadful  day,  each  interval  of  pain  had  heard 
her  murmur  weakly,  and  ever  more  weakly: 

"  Oh !  how  glad  I  am  John  is  not  here.  Don't 
let  him  know  until  it  is  over.  Pauvre  John !  how 
he  would  hate  me  to  suffer  so.  Doctor!  will  it 
soon  be  over  now?  Don't  send  for  John  until 
the  end.  Auntie,  don't  tell  him  how  bad  I've 
been." 

And  later: 

"  Am  I  going  to  die  ?  I  don't  think  I  can  bear 
any  more.  I  don't  mind — I've  been  so  happy 
always.  Tell  John  I  said  I've  been  so  happy 


BACCARAT  257 

always,  and  how  I  have  loved  him,  that  will  com- 
fort him." 

"  Oh,  you're  not  going  to  die !  Everything  is 
going  on  quite  well ;  in  another  hour  or  so " 

That  is  what  Dr.  Jones  said  to  her,  and  Aunt 
Sophia,  Marie,  and  the  nurse  repeated  it,  con- 
tinually, in  reassuring  accents.  As  the  hours 
wore  on,  however,  and  Julie's  pulse  grew  weaker 
and  weaker,  and  grave  symptoms  appeared,  they 
left  off  talking.  They  busied  themselves  about 
her,  but  their  faces  were  pale,  and  big  tears  kept 
dropping  down  Aunt  Sophia's  nose,  obscuring 
her  spectacles;  and  Marie  grew  noisy  and  ner- 
vous, and  insolent  to  the  nurse,  who  alone  was 
calm  and  unaffected. 

At  five  o'clock  Dr.  Jones  beckoned  Marie  out  of 
the  room.  For  an  hour  past,  they  had  all  been 
useless  there. 

"  We  must  send  for  her  husband,"  he  said — 
and  blew  his  nose. 

"Mais,  elle  me  I' a  defendu,"  said  Marie 
quickly. 

"  Oh !  yes,  yes !    In  an  ordinary  case,  of  course. 

17 


258  BACCARAT 

But  we  can't  take  the  responsibility.  There  is" — 
and  he  gave  some  technical  details. 

"  Madame  is  in  danger?"  questioned  Marie, 
her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

"  Well !  I  won't  go  as  far  as  that,  but  she's 
not  doing  very  well.  We  had  better  send  up  to 
the  office.  Jane  can  go  round  to  the  surgery,  and 
telephone  to  her  husband.  He  ought  to  be  here, 
you  know.  He  won't  lose  his  head;  and  at  any 
moment " 

"  Oh !  sir;  but  if  she  will  get  better,  she  do  so 
wish  the  master  come  not  until  it  is  over.  She 
made  me  promise ;  again  and  again,  she  made  me 
promise " 

"  No,  no!  we  can't  risk  it;  we  really  can't.  If 
you  won't  attend  to  it,  you  can  go  back  to  her,  and 
I'll  call  Mrs.  Crawley  out." 

But  Marie,  although  she  was  not  ignorant  of 
nature's  ways  with  mothers,  could  not  face  the 
sick  room  again.  She  promised,  instead,  to  do 
Dr.  Jones's  bidding,  she  was  glad  of  the  errand, 
of  the  relief  from  responsibility.  Fear  lent  light- 
ness to  her  feet,  she  had  arrived  breathlessly  at 


BACCARAT  259 

Dr.  Jones's,  asked  his  man  to  ring  up  John 
Courtney,  and  tell  him  to  come  home  at  once, 
and  had  returned  to  the  house  before  the  situation 
had  changed. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

JOHN  came  in  answer  to  that  telephone  mes- 
sage, he  came  slowly,  reluctantly.  He  was  not 
uneasy  for  his  wife,  notwithstanding  the  message; 
he  hoped  it  would  be  over  before  he  arrived,  and 
that  good  news  would  meet  him.  "  Good  news" 
could  only  mean  one  thing  to  John  Courtney; 
that  there  was  no  bastard  in  his  house. 

But  there  was  no  good  news  to  await  him. 
The  next  few  hours  did  nothing  towards  adjust- 
ing that  shifting  which  had  taken  place  in  his 
moral  sense.  From  outside  the  door  he  heard 
Julie's  cries,  her  moans,  for  now  she  was  past 
self-restraint,  and  he  heard  the  moans  change  to 
long-drawn  sighs,  and  the  sighs  to  a  silence  more 
desperate  still.  Dr.  Jones  came  out  of  the  room 
more  than  once,  his  face  always  graver.  He 
asked  for  help  at  last,  and  John  fetched  another 
doctor.  Still  the  hours  crawled  heavily  on,  and 
no  change  occurred.  The  hush  of  a  terrible 

260 


BACCARAT  261 

anxiety  begun  to  brood  over  the  house.  Aunt 
Sophia  had  no  words  of  comfort  left  to  her.  The 
nurse,  hurrying  backwards  and  forwards,  saw 
John  standing,  all  the  evening,  and  far  into  the 
night,  outside  the  bedroom  door.  He  asked  her 
no  questions.  If  the  knowledge  of  their  fears  had 
penetrated  to  him,  he  made  no  sign.  The  nurse 
was  constrained  to  test  his  control  by  a  word : 

"  She's  very  bad,"  she  said  in  passing,  and 
shook  her  lugubrious  white-capped  head.  But  it 
seemed  as  if  he  had  not  heard. 

It  seemed  strange  that  he  had  no  fear  for  her 
life,  that  he  did  not  share  their  anxiety.  For 
him  there  was  only  one  fear,  only  one  anxiety. 
He  knew  she  must  give  birth  to  the  monstrous 
thing  she  carried,  but  then,  then  it  would  be  well 
with  her.  Vaguely  realising  their  anxiety,  it 
nevertheless  seemed  to  him  it  must  be  because 
they  did  not  know  how  necessary  it  was  that  the 
thing  should  die.  If,  as  they  suspected,  as  they 
told  him,  it  was  dead  before  its  birth,  then  too 
it  were  well.  The  hour  of  her  travail  should  be 
the  hour  of  her  freedom,  and  of  his  own. 


262  BACCARAT 

The  new  doctor  was  for  taking  drastic  meas- 
ures. He  was  young  in  his  profession,  and  rest- 
less. It  was  necessary  to  obtain  John's  permis- 
sion, and  to  explain  certain  contingencies  to  him. 
Both  doctors  were  jarred  upon  at  hearing  him 
laugh,  a  hoarse,  unnatural  laugh. 

"  Cut  it  in  pieces,"  said  John  Courtney;  "  tear 
it  from  her;  get  rid  of  it."  His  eyes  were  blood- 
shot. 

"  Poor  fellow !"    said  Dr.  Jones. 

"Cold-blooded  brute,  isn't  he?"  asked  Dr. 
Gifford. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  a  weak,  familiar  cry,  a 
"  thank  God"  from  Aunt  Sophia,  "  Ah !  here  it 
is  at  last,"  and  a  sigh  of  relief  from  Dr.  Jones, 
startled  the  watcher  at  the  door. 

Aunt  Sophia,  weakened  from  her  long  day,  her 
long  night  of  tending  and  anxiety,  came  to  him 
sobbing  and  unnerved. 

"  It's  all  right,  dear  boy ;  it's  all  right.  Don't 
mind  me,  I'm  only  a  foolish  old  woman.  But 
they  thought  they  would  have  to  kill  it,  that  all 
she  had  gone  through  was  to  be  for  nothing;  the 


BACCARAT  263 

prospect  of  her  disappointment  upset  me."  Aunt 
Sophia  broke  down  and  sobbed,  the  hard,  painful 
sobs  of  one  no  longer  young. 

Her  fortitude  had  been  terribly  tried,  but  when 
she  had  drunk  the  wine  he  brought  her  she  could 
note  his  face;  it  looked  like  the  face  of  an  old 
man,  and  his  eyes  were  red.  She  gulped  the  wine 
and  her  tears  down  together,  then  she  went  on 
talking  to  remove  that  expression  from  his  face : 

"  Don't  look  like  that,  John ;  it's  all  right  now, 
she  will  soon  pull  round,  there  was  nothing  really 
wrong." 

It  was  not  dead  then,  this  reptile;  that  was  all 
he  knew,  although  he  had  done  what  was  expected 
of  him,  had  fetched  wine  for  Aunt  Sophia,  and 
made  her  lie  down  on  the  bed  in  his  dressing- 
room. 

She  said  "  there  was  nothing  really  wrong," 
that  was  what  Aunt  Sophia  said.  But  what  if 
she  had  known  ? 

Aunt  Sophia  went  on  talking: 

"  What  time  is  it  now?  Six  o'clock!  Thirty- 
six  hours!  For  she  was  ill  last  night  too,  al- 


264  BACCARAT 

though  she  would  not  let  you  know.  It's  a  little 
girl,  I  do  wonder  what  the  children  will  say  to 
it,  a  dear  little  girl.  I'll  bring  it  to  show  you 
as  soon  as  I  can,  but  it  hasn't  cried  properly  yet, 
and  they  are  busy  with  her.  Poor  Julie!  what 
a  time  she  has  had,  what  a  dreadful  time!  And 
the  sweetness  and  unselfishness  of  her!  She 
thought  of  you  all  the  while.  It  was,  '  I'm  glad 
John  does  not  know,'  and  '  Don't  send  for  John 
until  it  is  all  over.'  And  '  Aren't  you  tired  stand- 
ing, auntie?  .  .  .  Send  Marie  away,  she  is  get- 
ting so  unhappy.'  There,  John,  I  was  against  you 
marrying  a  papist,  but " 

"  Will  you  come  in  now  for  a  minute?  She  is 
calling  out  for  you." 

Dr.  Jones  was  no  longer  grave,  but  consequen- 
tial. He  was  as  proud  of  what  nature  had  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly  accomplished,  as  if  he 
had  been  the  organiser  of  the  forces  called  into 
play. 

"  I  need  scarcely  remind  you  to  disturb  her  as 
little  as  possible.  Don't  stay  more  than  five  min- 
utes. She  is  really  not  quite  conscious;  we  had 


BACCARAT  265 

to  give  her  a  large  quantity  of  chloroform.  But 
Dr.  Gifford  thinks  it  better  not  to  baulk  her,  and 
she  is  asking  for  you." 

John  passed  into  the  quiet  of  the  sick  room, 
into  the  familiar  scene.  All  the  past  months  were 
nightmare  phantoms.  He  knelt  again,  as  he  had 
knelt  by  her  bedside  in  the  French  hotel,  when 
he  had  thanked  God  passionately  that  he  was 
there,  when  he  had  prayed  for  her  life.  Then 
he  would  have  forgiven  everything,  forgotten 
everything,  only  praying  that  her  life  should  be 
spared. 

He  had  not  fulfilled  his  vows;  a  dull  remorse 
overtook  him. 

"Is  it  John?"   she  said. 

Her  voice  was  weak,  thin,  far  away. 

"  Have  you  seen  it?" 

She  moved  the  bedclothes;  something  flannel- 
covered  and  tiny  breathed  by  her  side.  He  could 
not  speak;  but  she  did  not  wait  for  that,  her 
mind  was  wandering. 

"  Poor  little  'Baccarat,'  I  thought  it  was  going 
to  mean  the  end  of  everything,  the  end  of  me." 


266  BACCARAT 

"  You  ought  not  to  talk."  His  voice  was  harsh 
with  his  emotion.  But  her  delirium  took  heed  of 
neither  voice  nor  words. 

"  It  is  all  gone — all  the  money,  John — every- 
thing you  gave  me.  I  don't  know  what  happened 
last  night;  I  only  know  I  suffered.  It  was  not 
you,  my  husband.  Oh!  le  cauchemar!  I  had 
drunk  so  much  champagne.  It  was  always  '  Huit 
a  la  Banque,  Neuf  a  la  Banque,'  and  the  sinking 
of  the  heart,  and  the  fear,  and  '  baccarat.'  It  has 
come  alive  now — '  Baccarat  I' '' 

Feebly  she  tried  to  turn  her  face  to  the  bundle 
of  flannel  that  stirred  and  breathed  a  weak  per- 
petual cry. 

"  Poor  little  '  Baccarat' ;  but  it  does  not  look 
like  two  tens !" 

Her  mind  was  wandering,  her  eyes  were  bright 
with  fever. 

"  Take  it  away  from  me,  John.  I  can't  sleep 
.  .  .  you  are  cruel  to  leave  it  there." 

Her  thin  voice  rose,  and  from  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  the  doctor,  the  nurse,  hurried  to  her. 
The  doctor  put  his  finger  on  her  pulse.  Her  eyes 


BACCARAT  267 

were  growing  more  glazed,  and  her  feverish  voice 
talked  faster  and  more  incoherently. 

"  The  temperature  is  rising,"  Dr.  Jones  said. 
"  I  think  you  had  better  go  out  of  the  room ;  she 
does  not  know  you.  She  has  been  through  a 
great  deal,  we  are  going  to  give  her  a  sleeping 
draught,  she  must  have  absolute  quiet." 

John  was  quite  hopeless  now,  quite;  the  weak 
crying  of  the  bundle  that  lay  at  her  side  moved 
him  to  nothing  but  disgust. 

"  Can't  you  send  it  into  another  room?"  he 
asked. 

"  Put  it  in  the  cot,  nurse,"  was  the  careless 
answer.  "  It  had  better  have  a  hot-water  bottle; 
the  circulation  is  not  good  yet." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  better  out  of  the 
room,"  John  urged;  but  no  one  heeded  him.  It 
is  natural  to  leave  a  new-born  baby  with  its 
mother.  All  the  time,  the  incoherent  babbling 
went  on,  as  it  had  done  in  the  French  hotel.  The 
weak  cry  of  the  infant,  as  it  was  removed  from 
the  warm  bed,  mingled  with  the  confusion  of  the 
lingering  chloroform  fumes. 


268  BACCARAT 

"  It's  a  knave.  .  .  .  Baccarat,  always  baccarat. 
I  hear  it  like  a  cry.  Do  you  hear  it,  John  ?  And 
it  means  ruin,  ruin.  What  will  John  say?  .  .  . 
I  did  not  know  it  was  a  baby ;  why  do  you  let  it 
cry?  ...  I  can't  sleep;  always  I  see  the  cards." 

"  Of  course,  if  it  disturbs  her,  it  must  go.  Isn't 
there  a  nursery  ?  Put  a  blanket  over  the  cot,  and 
carry  it  into  the  nursery,"  ordered  Dr.  Gifford 
impatiently. 

But  John  couldn't  touch  it,  for  the  life  of  him 
he  could  not  touch  it.  He  stood  there,  quite  help- 
lessly. 

"  Just  like  a  man,"  as  the  nurse  said  to  her- 
self, contemptuously,  when,  though  her  hands 
were  full  enough  already  she  had  to  lift  the  baby 
out  of  Julie's  bed,  and  put  it,  all  covered  up  in 
blankets,  on  to  a  hot-water  bottle,  in  its  own 
cradle. 

There  were  a  few  more  days  of  comparative 
anxiety,  most  of  them  due  to  Dr.  Gifford,  who, 
being  very  scientific,  and  only  recently  from  hos- 
pital work,  foresaw  complications  that  never  arose, 
and  essayed  for  them  the  new  remedies  that  set 


BACCARAT  269 

up  legitimate,  but  nevertheless  vexatious,  discom- 
forts. Both  the  doctors  were  delighted  with  the 
new  remedies,  they  proved  most  interesting  ex- 
periments, and  the  patient  was  ultimately  little 
the  worse.  As  Julie  never  knew  to  what  was  due 
her  inability  to  nurse  her  child,  and  the  various 
delays  in  her  convalescence,  she  was  very  grateful 
to  her  medical  attendants,  very  obedient  and 
sweet-tempered. 

It  was  astonishing  how  quickly  the  routine  of 
the  house  fell  into  its  remembered  order.  The 
monthly  nurse  and  the  new  baby  monopolised 
Julie  and  her  bedroom.  Marie  was  insolent  and 
noisy  and  sullen  at  being  excluded,  the  children 
were  constantly  naughty  under  her  provocation 
and  example,  Jane  was  idle  and  quarrelsome, 
John  ill  attended  and  neglected,  just  as  it  had 
always  been  when  Julie  was  upstairs. 

John  visited  his  wife  regularly.  He  took  no 
notice  of  the  baby;  but  this  was  not  surprising, 
seeing  how  nearly  it  had  cost  him  his  wife,  they 
said. 

"  I  should  let  this  finish  it,  if  I  were  you,"  said 


270  BACCARAT 

Dr.  Jones,  in  his  facetious  way.  "  Three  is  a  nice 
number,  and  it  was  touch  and  go  this  time.  I 
may  tell  you  that  much — touch  and  go." 

John  shook  him  off,  with  his  assiduity,  and  face- 
tiousness.  It  did  not  seem  that  John  Courtney 
improved  very  rapidly  in  amiability,  even  now 
that  his  anxiety  was  at  an  end.  Men  still  shrugged 
their  shoulders  about  him;  it  was  well  for  him, 
he  knew,  that  he  did  not  want  credit. 

Of  course  Julie  was  very  ill  for  a  few  days, 
drugged  scientifically,  taken  out  of  the  hands  of 
nature.  But  this  only  retarded,  and  did  not  pre- 
vent her  convalescence.  John  saw  her  night  and 
morning.  He  saw  her  eyes  grow  soft  and  beauti- 
ful again,  her  complexion  clear,  her  sweet  dimp- 
ling smile  return  to  her  wan  cheek.  Spasms  of 
thanksgiving  came  to  him  in  those  hurried  visits 
to  the  sick  room,  and  warm  gushes  of  love,  bring- 
ing with  them  some  healing  to  him,  too. 

There  were  times  when  he  forgot  to  argue 
with  himself  about  right  and  wrong,  times  when 
he  forgot  the  baby,  and  only  felt  vaguely  that 
his  wife  had  been,  in  some  strange  way,  restored 


BACCARAT  271 

to  him.  The  taint  had  passed  from  her,  and  here 
she  was  again,  his  own,  purified.  You  could  not 
see  her  eyes  and  skin  and  doubt  it,  so  clear  and 
beautiful  they  were.  There  was  no  blemish  nor 
stain  upon  her.  His  heart  was  all  soft  to  her 
again,  as  he  sat  beside  her  and  listened  while  she 
talked,  sometimes  hearing  the  voice  only,  not  the 
words,  the  musical  babble  that  dulled  his  ears  and 
senses,  and  kept  him  from  arguing  the  right  or 
the  wrong  of  his  tacit  acceptance  of  the  new  occu- 
pant of  his  home. 

It  was  doing  no  harm  as  yet.  As  Julie  got 
better,  and  her  influence  re-asserted  itself,  the  chil- 
dren grew  once  more  bright  and  amiable.  Marie 
was  bribed  with  the  tending  of  the  new  baby,  the 
nurse  was  dismissed,  Jane  was  coaxed  again  into 
decent  cooking. 

His  forgiveness  of  her  now,  at  least,  was  full 
and  complete.  She  was  sanctified  to  him  through 
her  suffering,  and  very  dear,  his  morning  and 
evening  visits  to  the  sick  room  were  no  longer  a 
burden,  the  set  lines  around  his  mouth  relaxed, 
his  eyes  grew  almost  tender.  When  he  was  with 


272  BACCARAT 

his  children,  he  laughed  sometimes.  They  had 
not  heard  him  laugh  for  months. 

Now,  as  he  walked  up  the  pathway  and  lifted 
the  latch  of  the  little  gate,  it  seemed  once  again 
towards  home  that  he  was  coming.  He  did  not 
stay  to  question  why  it  was  so  with  him,  but  so  it 
was.  The  white  window  curtains,  the  scarlet 
geraniums  in  the  green  boxes,  the  bright  brass 
knocker,  were  again  beacons  to  him,  showing  him 
the  way  to  happiness. 

Because  he  worked  so  well,  and  still  so  hard, 
because  he  was  out  of  the  house  before  nine  in 
the  morning,  and  did  not  return  to  it  until  after 
six,  he  did  not  know  of  the  little  festivals  that 
went  on,  in  the  bedroom  and  in  the  day  nursery, 
when  the  children  would  cluster  around,  half  in 
doubt,  half  in  wonder,  to  see  the  new  little  sister 
that  lay  on  Aunt  Sophia's  lap,  or  was  cradled  in 
Marie's  arms,  or  was  lent  sometimes  for  a  won- 
derful five  minutes  to  Genie  to  hold,  as  it  were 
her  own — a  new  doll,  that  opened  its  eyes,  and 
clenched  and  unclenched  its  little  fists,  and  was 
altogether  exciting  and  marvellous.  Jane,  too, 


BACCARAT  273 

would  leave  her  kitchen  to  partake  in  those 
festivals  of  baby-worship.  She,  too,  would  lay 
tributes  of  shoes,  knitted  by  herself,  on  the  altar 
they  had  all  silently  erected  to  the  infant,  to 
infancy. 

Some  instinct  kept  Julie  silent  to  John  about 
the  new  baby,  which  had  already  found  its 
strange  sudden  way  to  her  heart.  No  matter 
from  whose  hands  the  gift  had  come,  its  help- 
lessness, its  soft  unconscious  nestling,  the  down 
on  its  little  head,  the  mysteries  of  pathetic  move- 
ments and  expression,  found  her,  made  her, 
mother  to  it.  She  was  of  the  many  women  who 
love  all  babies.  She  loved  the  scent  of  the  new 
flannel  and  powder  that  hangs  about  them,  the 
lightness  of  them  when  they  nestle  in  motherly 
arms,  snuggle  down  against  a  motherly  breast, 
smile,  sometimes,  that  unconscious  smile  which 
they  bring  with  them,  straight  from  heaven,  to 
tempt  mothers  to  sudden  kisses  and  love  words. 

The  downy  hair  on  the  new  baby's  head  was  as 
fair  as  Genie's  had  been.  The  blue  eyes  were  the 
colour  that  Genie's  had  been,  Jack's  too.  And  it 

18 


274  BACCARAT 

was  so  many  years  since  she  had  held  a  baby  of 
her  own  in  her  arms!  She  thrilled  to  it  with 
passionate  motherly  love,  she  put  away  from  her 
mind,  from  her  thoughts,  all  of  its  coming  that 
was  unsanctified,  unholy.  Instinct,  not  memory 
or  reason,  made  her  hide  this  love  from  John; 
but  she  hoped  quite  strongly  that  that  would  not 
long  be  necessary.  The  carnival  of  love  was  never 
quite  complete  without  him.  She  yearned  for  his 
sympathy,  she  framed  speeches,  to  utter  which  she 
had  not  yet  found  the  courage.  She  wanted  to 
see  the  baby  cradled  in  John's  arms,  as  the  others 
had  been;  she  wanted  him  to  see  the  love  that  it 
had  brought  in  its  train.  She  was  no  logician, 
this  mother  Julie,  she  did  not  see  that  it  was  the 
moon  for  which  she  cried.  But  while  it  failed  to 
come  to  her,  the  days  were  nevertheless  full  of 
joys. 

It  is  difficult  to  understand  what  there  is  to 
worship  in  an  atom  of  human  flesh,  mindless, 
vacant,  irresponsive ;  but  there  it  is.  Babies  bring 
this  possibility  of  an  orgie  of  love  with  them,  it 
is  the  atmosphere  in  which  they  come  to  conscious- 


BACCARAT  275 

ness.  They  smile  into  their  mother's  eyes  one 
day,  realising  her,  and  after  that  they  grow. 

John,  coming  in  one  day  unexpectedly  early, 
surprised  this  scene.  It  was  the  tenth  anniver- 
sary of  their  wedding  day.  Perhaps  that  was 
the  reason  of  John's  early  return.  Julie  sat  on 
a  low  chair  before  the  fire,  in  a  white  flannel 
dressing-gown,  very  soft  and  light;  the  front 
was  unfastened,  and  her  breast  was  exposed, 
the  young,  round  breast  of  her,  so  firm  and  small 
and  beautiful,  her  face  was  illuminated  with  the 
light  that  shines  only  on  the  face  of  the  Eternal 
Mother.  The  baby's  head  was  on  her  breast,  the 
little  soft  cheek  indented  it;  under  her  arm  she 
had  a  bottle,  and  the  tube  from  it  was  in  the  in- 
fant's mouth.  Although  the  light  was  on  her  face, 
there  were  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Suck,  darling!  suck,  sweet!  Oh!  Marie,  she 
thinks  it  is  me." 

Julie  had  given  to  the  other  children  from  her- 
self, but  for  this  one  the  mother- food  had  been 
withheld.  "  She  will  never  know  the  difference, 
Marie,  dear.  I  am  so  glad  I  thought  of  holding 


276  BACCARAT 

the  bottle  so ;  then  I  feel  her  sucking.  See !  how 
hungry  she  is  for  it.  I  shall  feed  her  this  way 
every  day." 

The  happy  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  As 
she  had  grown  stronger,  she  had  fretted  at  her 
inability  to  still  the  hungry  cries  of  this  one,  as 
she  had  that  of  the  others.  But  now  she  had 
found  a  way  to  play,  to  pretend,  that  she  fed  it, 
and,  as  it  sucked,  content,  its  downy  head  against 
her  breast,  the  tears  of  happiness  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  So  John  saw  her,  with  the  child  against 
her  breast. 

Then,  by  the  blood  before  his  eyes,  and  the 
sudden  passion  that  shook  him,  by  the  pain  that 
tore  him  like  a  living  thing,  he  knew  that  that 
which  had  been  sleeping  was  awake;  that  he 
could  not  forget  it  was  not  his  child  that  she 
held;  that  the  torture  of  jealousy,  like  a  knife  in 
his  heart,  would  never  die  whilst  the  other  man's 
child  lived,  and  lay  on  her  heart. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

SHE  had  not  seen  him  open  the  door.  Absorbed 
in  the  child  at  her  breast,  she  had  not  noticed 
that  he  stood  there,  watching,  or,  perhaps,  she 
would  have  called  to  him.  She  would  have  found 
the  courage  to  ask  his  love,  his  protection  for  the 
helpless  atom  in  her  arms;  perhaps  he  would 
have  found  the  words  to  convince  her  that  what 
she  asked  he  could  not  give.  All  that  is  certain, 
however,  is  that  he  closed  the  door  quietly  behind 
him,  shutting  out  the  picture,  the  low  nursing- 
chair,  the  firelight,  and  the  happy  tears  on  her 
transfigured  face. 

She  heard  the  slam  of  the  house-door  behind 
him;  she  wondered  idly  for  a  moment  who  had 
gone  out.  But  the  bottle  was  empty,  and  she  had 
to  argue  with  Marie  over  its  refilling,  the  bib  had 
to  be  adjusted,  the  question  of  cradle  or  lap  for  a 
sleeping  baby  debated.  Who  it  was  that  went 

277 


278  BACCARAT 

out,  and  slammed  the  street-door,  was  of  minor 
importance.  Nobody  called  to  him,  "  Is  that  you, 
John?  I  want  you,  John."  He  could  go  his  own 
way. 

His  own  way  took  him  where  it  had  taken  him 
that  other  night,  the  night  when  first  he  learnt 
what  was  coming  to  share  his  home.  Even  then 
he  had  not  suspected  that  it  was  her  love,  too, 
which  he  must  share  with  it,  on  which  it  would 
encroach. 

There  was  not  room  in  that  little  house  for  him 
as  well  as  for  the  child !  That  was  what  he  felt, 
when  the  door  slammed  behind  him,  when  she  had 
not  called  him  into  the  warmth  of  the  room. 

It  had  been  winter  before,  it  was  spring  now ; 
but  the  dusk  warm  air  of  May  was  worse  to  him 
than  the  chill  of  autumn.  It  stifled  him,  he  could 
not  breathe  until  he  was  again  by  the  sea. 

He  stood  alone  on  the  shore  in  the  dusk  of  the 
spring  evening;  the  sea  broke  at  his  feet,  the  grey 
sky  had  the  last  red  flush  of  the  sunken  sun. 
Against  the  stones  the  incoming  tide  murmured, 
and  rolled  toward  him  with  soothing  monotony, 


BACCARAT  279 

quieting  him  gradually.  His  solitude  was  com- 
plete. He  had  shut  the  door  of  his  wife's  room 
behind  him;  but  it  was  her  room  and  the  babe 
on  her  knee,  that  he  saw  more  plainly  than  sea 
or  sky,  her  room,  in  which  now  there  was  no 
place  for  him.  He  was  not  eloquent,  even  to  him- 
self. 

He  must  get  out  of  it,  there  were  things  no 
man  could  stand,  he  must  go  right  away;  were 
all  the  phrases  that  shaped. 

It  would  be  so  simple,  such  an  easy  solution, 
and  he  was  so  dead  sick  of  it  all.  Things  would 
never  get  better,  but  worse.  For  if,  already,  in 
her  arms,  that  bastard  edged  him  out,  later  it 
would  be  his  children  too  that  it  would  exclude. 
And  he  would  have  to  stand  back,  and  impotently 
watch  this! 

He  did  not  realise  that  the  name  of  his  slow 
sullen  rage  was  jealousy,  or  that  at  the  back  of  it 
was  his  fresh  springing  love  for  her,  that  had 
ebbed,  but  that  now  flowed  overwhelmingly.  If  it 
were  dammed  suddenly  by  this  attack  of  jealousy, 
there  was  danger  in  the  sudden  damming.  No 


280  BACCARAT 

one  could  say  in  what  direction  this  pent  up  feel- 
ing of  his  might  find  its  vent. 

Now  it  was  like  a  pressure  on  his  brain,  it  pre- 
vented him  thinking.  He  only  knew  he  had  suf- 
fered past  endurance,  and  that  the  sea  soothed 
him,  and  called  him. 

He  had  gone  home  early,  because  it  was  the 
anniversary  of  their  wedding  day.  Always  before 
they  had  made  together  a  little  happy  festival  of 
the  date.  The  hideous  difference  notwithstanding, 
he  had  gone  home.  The  last  few  days  he  had 
been  feeling  happier.  He  had  not  known  why, 
but,  in  that  quickening  of  his  pulses,  and  little 
flush  of  his  flesh,  he  realised  now  it  was  because 
his  wife  was  restored  to  him.  He  wanted  her,  his 
whole  manhood  cried  to  him  that  she  was  his 
necessity.  But  he  was  no  longer  hers ! 

It  was  a  sudden  unreasoning  burst  of  jealousy 
that  had  driven  him  from  the  room,  where  she 
sat  with  the  baby  on  her  lap,  and  neither  saw  nor 
called  to  him.  He  grew  calmer  as  the  waves  broke 
at  his  feet,  there  was  a  sympathetic  melancholy  in 
their  monotonous  break. 


BACCARAT  281 

He  was  no  good,  he  was  nothing  but  an  awk- 
ward fool.  What  was  the  good  of  him?  He 
couldn't  even  tell  her  what  it  had  all  meant  to 
him.  But  he  would  not,  if  he  could.  He  was 
not  going  whining  to  her  for  her  love.  What 
was  there  in  him  for  any  woman  to  care  about? 
Other  fellows  had  grace  of  speech,  and  ways  of 
woman-wooing,  but  he  was  a  dumb  dog. 

She  didn't  want  him,  he  saw  that  plainly 
enough.  He  was  best  out  of  it.  He  had  thought 
of  that  before,  but  there  had  always  been  hope. 
If  the  thing  had  not  lived  she  would  have  come 
back  to  him.  Now,  she  would  never  come  back. 
She  would  nurse  it,  and  dress  it,  and  feed  it.  ... 
Again  his  rage  of  jealousy  turned  sullen  with  re- 
membrances. He  would  get  out  of  it  all. 

He  would  not  go  home,  and  cut  his  throat,  and 
make  a  fuss.  He  could  undress  on  the  beach,  as 
he  had  done  a  hundred  times  before,  in  his  boy- 
hood, even  in  his  early  manhood,  and  go  for  a 
swim ;  there  would  be  nothing  in  that.  He  would 
swim,  and  swim,  and  if  the  tide  carried  him  be- 
yond his  strength,  if  he  swam  on  and  on  until  his 


282  BACCARAT 

powers  failed  him,  and  there  was  no  return  for 
him,  why  it  would  be  only  an  accident,  and  nobody 
would  care  or  inquire  deep.  What  reason  had 
he  to  commit  suicide  ?  So  far  as  the  world  knew, 
none.  His  devotion  to  his  wife  was  an  open 
secret,  his  accounts  were  in  order,  his  business 
was  flourishing. 

This  time,  somehow,  it  did  not  seem  a  cowardly 
thing  to  do,  she  would  be  well  provided  for,  if 
his  death  were  proved  to  be  an  accident  the  in- 
surance money  would  be  safe.  She  would  not 
miss  him,  she  had  the  baby.  She  had  not  even 
heard  his  step,  although  always  before  she  had 
called  out  to  him. 

Because  jealousy,  as  John  suffered  it  then,  is 
such  a  conflicting  passion,  in  the  very  breath  that 
he  said  she  would  not  miss  him,  he  knew  she 
would. 

Well,  it  served  her  right !  Hurriedly  he  began 
to  undress,  to  take  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat, 
to  fold  them  up  as  if  he  would  return  for  them, 
to  commence  his  preparation  for  the  long,  end- 
less, swim  that  he  would  take.  He  was  only 


BACCARAT  283 

in  the  way.  Julie  would  do  quite  well  without 
him. 

The  water  was  cold,  the  tide  incoming.  Under 
the  thin,  grey,  cloudy  sky,  light  and  broken,  he 
went  out  to  meet  it.  It  reached  his  ankles,  his 
knees,  then  he  took  his  header  and  struck  out. 

How  it  buoyed  him  up,  that  cold  salt  water, 
cooling  his  hot  head,  relieving  the  pressure,  or 
seeming  to  shift  it !  In  the  first  breaker  through 
which  he  dived,  his  purpose  was  lost.  Now  it  was 
only  a  swim  he  was  taking.  He  revelled  in  his 
strength  as  he  breasted  the  waves,  and  rose  with 
them,  striking  out,  and  always  out.  They  were 
strong  waves,  high  and  rolling;  he  had  to  fight 
his  way.  It  was  like  a  foe  he  was  buffeting,  for 
the  tide  came  rough  and  broken.  It  made  a  man 
of  him  again ;  out,  and  ever  out,  he  swam,  up  and 
down,  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  waves,  the  salt 
keen  spray  on  his  lips,  the  wind  in  his  teeth. 
"  Sea,  and  bright  wind,  and  heaven  of  ardent  air" 
— he  felt  these  as  vitally  as  the  poet  had  felt  them, 
though  he  was  no  poet. 

He  had  been  a  fool  to  think  of  drowning,  a 


284  BACCARAT 

man  like  himself  could  not  drown.  By  the  im- 
pact of  the  waves,  by  his  joy  in  surmounting  them, 
the  triumph  on  the  crest,  the  calm  of  the  slough, 
he  knew  that  he  must  live.  It  was  death  he  had 
gone  out  to  meet;  now  he  was  facing  life.  His 
life  was  given  him  to  keep,  his  very  gift  of 
strength  proclaimed  it. 

The  cuckoo  in  his  nest,  the  snake  on  his  hearth, 
the  stone  that  was  in  his  way,  those  must  go,  not 
he,  so  a  man  keeps  his  manhood.  His  head  was 
growing  heavy  again;  the  waves  were  mountain 
high. 

A  man  should  meet  his  troubles,  not  run  from 
them.  If,  indeed,  that  bastard  in  her  arms  edged 
out  his  children,  who  but  himself  was  there  to 
protect  them  ?  What  right  had  he  to  go  and  leave 
that  behind  him  to  share  what  he  had  earned  for 
those  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood ! 

If  he  was  buffeted,  he  was  strong ;  see  how  he 
struck  out — though  the  foam  was  in  his  face,  and 
the  wind  in  his  teeth.  It  was  for  that  he  had  been 
given  strength.  Right  and  wrong  might  be  mixed 
in  his  mind,  but  the  voice  of  nature  was  clear. 


BACCARAT  285 

Fight!  that  was  what  it  said;  fight,  for  a  man's 
rights,  for  his  home,  for  his  wife !  Strike  out  of 
the  way  anything  that  barred  him  from  them ! 

Mechanically  now  his  arms  were  moving,  but 
he  was  making  no  progress ;  his  ears  were  full  of 
the  sea,  and  his  eyes  were  closed  with  the  salt 
rheum ;  the  waves  swung  him,  and  flung  him,  and 
played  with  him  as  they  listed.  His  strength  had 
all  left  him ;  he  combated  no  more  with  the  tide, 
but  let  it  carry  him  back  to  life  and  to  purpose,  to 
a  man's  purpose.  Strange  how  everything  had 
gone  black,  and  he  could  see  nothing,  hear  noth- 
ing, but  the  sea  in  his  ears,  whispering,  talking, 
directing  him,  he  could  not  see  where,  and  he 
could  not  understand  the  direction.  Now  he  came 
to  the  surface  again,  saw  stars  in  the  dark  sky; 
but  again  the  waves  had  engulfed  him. 

Strange  they  should  fling  him  back  into  the 
room  where  his  wife  lay,  into  that  warm  firelit 
room ;  but  now  he  made  out  what  they  said,  what 
they  told  him  he  must  do.  A  man  should  hold 
his  own,  must  reach  to  it  over  obstacles,  must  act, 
if  needs  be,  the  man's  part.  That  was  why  the 


286  BACCARAT 

waves  had  flung  him  into  his  wife's  room,  where 
she  lay,  with  the  baby,  that  was  not  his,  in  the 
cradle  beside  her.  "  Go  on,  go  on"  they  cried ; 
"  your  way  is  plain." 

The  waves  had  swung  him  and  flung  him  as 
they  listed. 

In  Julie's  room  the  firelight  had  burned  low, 
and  the  night-light  glimmered  feebly.  She 
breathed  sweetly  and  low  in  her  sleep.  But  he 
must  not  look  at  Julie.  Yet  how  well  he  saw 
her,  her  dark  hair  and  the  nightgown  open  at  the 
throat,  and  the  white  neck  of  her ! 

What  had  the  stars  to  do  with  it?  Who  said 
he  was  drowning?  Surely  he  was  in  the  room, 
in  his  wife's  room,  where  he  had  ever  gone,  like 
a  man.  But  now  the  unwonted  cold  of  fear  was 
in  his  limbs.  What  had  he  come  here  to  do,  what 
was  the  roar  in  his  ears? 

"Seize  it;  strangle  it;  get  it  out  of  your  way: 
be  a  man,  John  Courtney:  hold  your  own!"  were 
the  words  he  heard. 

Again  he  saw  the  white  streak  of  moon  on  the 
face  of  the  stormy  waters,  and  the  stars  looked 


BACCARAT  287 

down  upon  him.  There  was  a  rush  of  waters  in 
his  ears. 

No,  that  must  be  Julie's  breathing,  and  the 
quick  beat  of  his  heart,  or  perhaps  it  was  the 
ticking  of  the  clock,  marking  the  time  for  him. 
He  must  make  haste,  he  had  so  little  time,  he 
was  not  drowning,  but  he  had  so  little  time.  He 
had  seen  her  hushing  the  baby  to  sleep,  holding 
it,  swaying  with  it  to  and  fro,  just  as  the  waves 
will  sway  a  tired  swimmer.  The  croupier's  baby 
lay  on  his  wife's  breast,  and  there  was  no  place  in 
her  bed  for  him.  He  must  take  it  from  her.  A 
man  must  fight  for  his  own.  That  was  the  answer 
of  the  cold  sea,  the  answer  that  had  come  to  him 
out  of  the  silver  calm  of  the  heavens. 

The  cradle  lay  in  shadow,  and  the  cradle  was 
rocking  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  waves.  How  cold 
it  was,  and  the  salt  in  his  mouth  was  the  savour 
of  death ! 

The  cot  swung  now  high,  now  low,  in  the 
shadows  of  the  room;  he  tore  aside  the  muslin 
curtains  with  his  stiffening  fingers.  He  had 
pulled  aside  the  curtain,  but  he  could  not  see  its 


288  BACCARAT 

face,  the  flannel  was  round  it,  John  knew  the 
cradle  care  of  mothers.  Beneath  the  enveloping 
flannel  he  must  go  to  find  the  little  face.  The 
one  he  saw  was  Genie's,  or  Jack's?  A  red  and 
shapeless  little  face,  the  fair  hair  moist,  a  crum- 
pled fist  in  a  shapeless  mouth,  sucking  in  sleep. 
What  he  must  do  was  to  press  the  flannel  back 
in  its  place,  fold  and  double  fold  it.  The  face 
would  pucker  up  for  tears  when  he  had  drawn 
aside  the  flannel,  it  was  the  cold  that  touched  it. 
He  had  seen  them  do  that.  Well!  it  should  be 
warm,  he  did  not  want  to  hurt  it.  But  he  did 
not  want  it  in  his  house.  He  was  cold,  but  surely 
burning  sweat  drops  stood  on  his  forehead,  his 
hands  were  palsied.  The  baby  stirred,  and  he 
folded  the  flannel  close,  and  pressed  it  over  nose 
and  mouth. 

A  moaning  sound  came  from  it;  or  was  it 
the  sea  in  his  ears?  He  pressed  and  pressed, 
and  now  there  was  no  movement,  only  silence 
in  the  room,  and  the  clock  was  ticking,  and  still 
the  cold.  How  numbed  he  felt,  but  he  was 
glad  it  was  over,  he  could  die  now,  he  needn't 


BACCARAT  289 

struggle  any  more,  there  was  no  bastard  in  his 
house ! 

Again  he  saw  the  stars,  and  the  pale  glimmer 
of  the  moon.  What  more  did  they  want  with 
him  ?  He  had  used  his  strength,  he  was  tired  now, 
and  the  croupier's  baby  was  dead.  All  the  time 
he  had  wished  it  dead,  but  a  man  must  fight  to 
hold  his  own.  Wind  and  wave  beat  upon  John 
Courtney,  watery  moon  and  grey  sky  shone  upon 
him;  they  had  separated  mind  from  body.  He 
had  turned  upon  his  back  when  exhaustion  had 
come  suddenly  upon  him ;  he  knew  what  a  drown- 
ing man  should  do.  Nothing  mattered,  he  had 
fought  his  fight,  his  home  was  cleansed. 

But  the  tide  dealt  tenderly,  ironically,  with  him. 
It  drifted  him  back,  flung  him  on  the  stones  again, 
right  on  to  the  neat  heap  of  his  folded  clothes. 

And  as  he  lay  there,  the  strength  with  which  he 
had  been  so  lavish  came  slowly  back,  and  his 
mind  from  out  the  silent  room,  from  beside  the 
strangled  baby,  came  back  more  slowly  still  to 
his  shuddering  body.  But  the  taste  of  brine  that 
was  like  death  was  still  in  his  mouth  when  he 

19 


290  BACCARAT 

came  to  himself,  and  the  fear  that  had  been  upon 
him  gripped  him  still. 

The  dream  had  been  vivid;  was  it  dream  or 
illusion?  He  heard  cries,  Julie's  and  the  babe's. 
They  cried  to  him.  His  teeth  were  chattering, 
and  his  lips  were  blue.  All  the  time  he  was  dress- 
ing on  the  beach,  a  mile  or  more  from  his  home, 
he  heard  those  two  cry,  their  voices  mingled. 

When  he  had  dressed,  he  set  off  running.  Pres- 
ently, as  he  ran,  his  senses  came  back  to  him. 
He  had  had  a  narrow  escape.  He  realised  what 
had  happened ;  but  if  the  incoming  tide  had  been 
the  outgoing  tide,  that  long  swim  had  been  his 
last. 

Oh !  how  good  it  was  to  be  alive !  He  remem- 
bered the  rage  of  his  jealousy,  how  small  it 
seemed.  He  was  a  long  way  from  home,  he  had 
been  out  too  many  hours.  His  strength  was 
coming  back  as  he  ran,  and  the  warmth  to  his 
limbs.  Strange  how  he  still  heard  that  cry  in 
his  ears.  Of  course  it  was  an  illusion !  He  had 
been  near  to  death,  and  his  mind  was  not  yet 
one  with  his  body. 


BACCARAT  291 

Illusion  or  instinct,  he  quickened  his  pace. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  corner  of  the  street, 
before  he  had  got  in  sight  of  the  house,  he  knew 
something  had  happened,  that  something  was 
wrong  in  that  little  house.  His  mind  was  cleared 
as  if  by  a  lightning  flash.  And  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind,  as  he  ran,  travelled  a  voice,  calling  to 
him.  It  was  Julie's  voice. 

"  John,  John !"  it  wailed;  and  he  ran,  and  ran, 
as  if  again  death  pursued  him. 

No !  it  was  not  fancy.  Now  indeed  his  blood 
ran  cold  as  he  sped.  Out  of  the  night,  her  voice 
called  to  him,  and  many  voices  reached  him,  and 
the  smell  of  smoke,  and  a  crackling  sound — how 
he  ran ! 

"I'm  coming!  I'm  coming!"  he  sent  his  pant- 
ing breath  on  before  him. 

And  she  heard  it,  she  always  said  afterwards 
that  she  had  heard  it. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

BEFORE  the  little  house  an  excited  crowd 
surged,  and  shouted  all  kinds  of  contradictory 
directions.  Already  a  hand  engine  had  been 
brought  up,  a  short  ladder  rested,  impotently, 
against  the  dining-room  window,  and  an  adven- 
turous amateur  fireman  stretched  helpless  arms 
towards  where  Julie  was.  Dimly  John  divined 
that  her  children  were  clinging  to  her ;  for  it  was 
in  the  night  nursery  she  stood. 

"John!"   she  cried,  "John!" 

The  call  was  as  wings  to  his  feet. 

"Don't  jump,  I'm  coming;   don't  jump." 

It  was  almost  impossible  that  she  could  have 
heard  him,  but,  as  he  dashed  up  the  pathway, 
scattering  the  neighbours,  who  made  way  for  him, 
as  he  seized  and  shook  the  ladder,  shouting  to  the 
man  upon  it,  to  come  down,  she  saw  him. 

"  We  are  all  right,  n'aie  pas  peur,  John !"  she 
shouted  to  him.  "  It  is  only  the  smoke." 

John  knew  what  it  was  in  a  moment,  almost 

292 


BACCARAT  293 

before  he  had  got  in  sight  of  the  house.  He  had 
been  warned,  and  had  warned  them.  It  was  the 
copper,  which  they  used  to  wash  clothes,  at  home. 
This  was  heated  by  gas,  and  every  night  he  or 
Julie  would  go  down  to  see  that  it  was  turned 
low.  But  to-night  he  had  not  gone  down.  He 
had  rushed  from  the  house,  nursing  his  griev- 
ances, arguing  his  wrongs,  dreaming  of  revenge. 
Here,  then,  was  his  revenge,  up  there  amid  the 
smoke;  but  as  yet  he  only  suspected  it.  He  saw 
that  the  smoke  was  thickest,  not  where  she  stood, 
but  on  the  other  side.  Already  from  beneath  the 
chintz-covered,  pretty  drawing-room,  a  little 
flame  leaped  up.  John  knew  what  to  do;  he 
seized  the  ladder,  sending  his  voice  again  before 
him. 

"  Hold  tight,  I'll  be  up  in  a  jiffy,  there  is  no 
danger." 

It  was  to  the  back  he  must  carry  the  ladder; 
for  back  and  front  the  little  house  was  accessible. 
The  danger  was  really  not  great,  although  already 
the  dark  night,  and  the  belching  smoke,  and  the 
confusion  tended  to  obscure  the  judgment.  Above 


294  BACCARAT 

the  scullery,  by  the  side  door,  the  big  waste  pipe 
ran  down  to  the  back  garden,  the  cistern  being 
over  it;  that  was  John's  way  into  the  house. 
Julie  had  heard  him,  she  would  not  jump.  The 
front  door  might  be  impossible,  it  was  dangerous 
to  open  it,  to  fan  the  flames;  but  there  at  the 
back  he  was  safe  enough,  they  were  all  safe. 

But  he  did  not  know  for  how  long  the  fire  had 
been  smouldering.  Now  he  saw  that  the  back 
drawing-room  too  was  all  alight;  the  fire  had 
started  from  below,  the  rolling  smoke  was  black 
and  threatening. 

"  Don't  jump,  I'm  coming!"  he  had  cried,  and 
she  had  heard  him,  although  it  seemed  long  to 
her  since  the  words  had  reached  her.  The  smoke 
was  grey  here  and  curled  up  through  the  floor, 
and  the  house  was  full  of  it.  The  children,  has- 
tily awakened,  whimpered  and  shivered,  and 
asked  if  they  were  going  to  be  burned;  they 
coughed  and  complained  that  their  eyes  smarted, 
and  they  were  frightened.  It  seemed  long  since 
she  had  heard  John  call,  but  she  hushed  them 
bravely. 


BACCARAT  295 

"  We  are  quite  safe,  Daddy  is  here ;  he  is  com- 
ing up  to  us  soon,  he  will  be  here  directly."  But 
the  minutes  were  leaden-footed. 

John  ran  the  short  ladder  against  the  side  wall, 
and  made  the  other  man  hold  it  steady  for  him. 
He  had  gained  the  waste  pipe,  hand  over  hand; 
now  he  was  making  for  his  objective.  The  ex- 
cited crowd  that  watched  did  not  realise  what  he 
was  doing: 

"  It's  the  wrong  wall,  she's  in  front.  Whatever 
is  he  going  round  there  for?" 

"  Let  him  alone,  it's  his  own  house;  trust  him 
for  knowing  what  he's  about." 

"  He'll  have  to  hurry." 

He  knew  that,  as  yet,  it  was  only  smoke  which 
he  had  to  fight,  on  this  side  of  the  house.  But 
the  night  air  fanned  the  fire.  It  seemed  as  if 
everything  that  had  bothered  him  had  vanished. 
His  brain  was  quite  clear  now,  wonderfully  clear. 
It  was  for  this  his  strength  had  been  given,  that 
he  might  climb  up  to  those  helpless  ones. 

He  smashed  the  window  with  one  blow  of  his 
fist,  and,  with  hands  bleeding  from  the  broken 


296  BACCARAT 

glass,  got  quickly  through  into  the  lavatory.  Here 
the  smoke  had  hardly  penetrated,  but  he  met  it 
again  in  the  narrow  passage,  and  he  heard  the 
ominous  sound  of  crackling,  while  the  smoke 
made  darkness  about  him. 

Of  course  he  knew  where  Julie  was,  and  what 
had  happened.  She  had  been  aroused,  and  had 
awoke  suddenly,  the  mother  instinct  waking  with 
her.  She  had  rushed  upstairs  to  her  children, 
the  staircase  might  have  been  safe  then,  now  the 
smoke  rolled  black  about  it.  He  could  not  find 
the  handle  of  the  nursery  door,  but  the  door  itself 
yielded  to  his  battering  shoulder,  jerry-built 
houses  have  their  advantages. 

"  Here's  Daddy,  mother !    Here's  Daddy !" 

They  shouted  to  him,  crying  and  shrill,  and 
telling  him  they  were  afraid.  But,  as  he  spoke  to 
them,  and  reassured  them,  his  eyes  met  Julie's. 
She  was  very  white,  and  her  lips  were  pale,  her 
eyes  red  and  smarting.  She  smiled  to  him,  never- 
theless. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said. 

She  had  nearly  lost  her  courage,  just  for  half  a 


BACCARAT  297 

moment,  when  the  short  ladder  was  below  her, 
and  the  man  had  called  to  her  to  jump,  and  the 
children,  frantic  with  terror,  besought  her  not  to 
leave  them.  But,  when  she  had  seen  John  come 
running,  and  had  recognised  him  in  the  moon- 
light, she  was  no  longer  afraid.  Although  she 
was  so  cold,  and  her  legs  were  trembling,  she  was 
not  afraid. 

"  The  staircase  is  full  of  smoke.  I  shut  the 
door  so  that  it  should  not  enter." 

"  It's  all  right.  The  fire  is  on  the  other  side  of 
the  house.  They  are  fetching  up  an  escape;  but 
there  is  plenty  of  time." 

"  I  know.  I  am  not  at  all  afraid.  Jane  went 
for  the  firemen;  Marie  took  baby.  I  rushed  up 
here.  I  knew  you  would  soon  come,  and  I  did 
not  want  them  to  be  afraid." 

There  was  more  danger,  however,  that  she  real- 
ised. The  open  window  had  fanned  the  flames, 
as,  indeed,  he  had  feared,  and  Jane  or  Marie  must 
have  opened  other  doors  or  windows.  He  heard 
again  the  ominous  crackling,  and  as  he  stood  with 
her  an  instant  at  the  window  he  saw  that  the 


298  BACCARAT 

crowd  in  his  front  garden,  behind  and  in  front 
of  the  wooden  gate,  had  increased. 

"  We  must  get  out  over  the  cistern,  down  by 
the  scullery,"  he  said  quickly;  "it's  all  right, 
come  along."  He  caught  her  up;  it  was  for  this 
that  his  strength  had  been  given  him. 

"  The  children  first,  dear."  She  was  brave  and 
calm;  she  was  right  in  his  heart. 

"All  together!" 

He  made  her  take  Genie  in  her  arms,  then  he 
took  them  both  in  his.  Jack  must  climb  on  his 
back,  they  must  all  hold  tight  round  his  neck. 
Thus  laden,  it  seemed  the  joy  of  life  had  come 
back  to  him  again;  he  laughed  and  joked  with 
them  all  as  he  made  for  the  passage. 

The  night  nursery  was  barely  furnished,  the 
three  beds,  the  deal  drawers,  the  japanned  wash- 
stands,  held  nothing  inflammable.  One  saw  the 
boards  of  the  ill-laid  floor,  and  the  strips  of  the 
new  linoleum.  It  was  through  the  chinks  in  the 
floor  that  the  smoke  curled,  smarting  their  eyes, 
choking  their  throats,  but  there  was  no  flame  here. 
As  he  passed  the  washstands,  he  told  his  wife  and 


BACCARAT  299 

children  to  hold  on  to  him,  tightly,  while  he 
shoved  the  towels  quickly  into  the  water- jug,  bid- 
ding Jack  to  put  one  over  his  head,  and  Julie  to 
cover  her  face  and  Genie's  with  the  other. 

He  got  out  of  the  room  with  his  burden ;  now 
that  the  smoke  had  filled  the  narrow  passage  he 
could  hardly  see.  But  they  were  easy,  with  their 
wet  towels.  The  wind  had  rushed  in  through  the 
window  he  had  broken,  and  more  and  more  omi- 
nous grew  the  sounds  of  breaking  glass,  of  falling 
masonry,  of  a  roar  that  was  like  the  wind.  He 
thought  the  firemen  would  have  run  the  escape  by 
the  scullery  window  by  now,  but  no!  there  the 
short  ladder  stood,  ten  feet  below  him,  and  now, 
on  this  side,  too,  the  smoke  curled. 

"  Hold  tight !    Whatever  you  do,  hold  tight !" 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost;  but  it  wasn't 
necessary  to  tell  them  that.  He  kept  their  courage 
up  with  his  steady  voice. 

"  Lucky  you've  got  a  wet  towel,  Jack !  it  will 
save  you  washing  in  the  morning.  It's  smutty 
about  here,  I  tell  you  that.  You  may  think  it's 
fun,  but  I  expect  I  shall  look  like  a  nigger." 


300  BACCARAT 

The  climb  down,  even  with  his  burden,  was 
easier  than  the  climb  up.  For,  after  all,  he  had 
them  all  with  him  and  he  could  trust  himself  to 
carry  them  into  safety.  His  spirits  were  sur- 
prisingly light.  He  was  holding  his  place,  and 
doing  his  work.  The  waste  pipe  held  well. 

"  Don't  throttle  me,"  he  called  to  Jack;  "  we'll 
be  on  dry  land  in  a  jiff." 

"  It  isn't  like  dry  land,"  said  Genie,  solemnly, 
from  beneath  her  wet  towel. 

Now  he  had  his  feet  on  the  ladder ;  it  had  only 
needed  care,  he  knew  that,  as  he  slid  down  the 
waste  pipe  with  them.  He  had  had  to  keep  his 
hands  free,  the  whole  three  of  them  hanging  round 
his  neck,  like  jewels  on  a  chain.  He  was  glad  to 
find  his  feet  on  the  ladder,  he  was  gladder  still 
when  the  gravel  crunched  beneath  his  feet,  and 
he  could  swing  them  lightly  down  one  after  the 
other. 

"  Lucky  it's  a  warm  night,"  he  said.  "  You 
didn't  make  much  of  a  toilette,  did  you  ?" 

Julie  shivered  in  her  bed  jacket,  and  Jack  and 
Genie  were  in  their  nightgowns.  He  purposely 


BACCARAT  301 

brought  them  to  commonplaces,  for  Julie,  in 
safety,  grew  hysterical,  and  clung  to  him,  and 
Genie  trembled  and  cried,  and  only  Jack  thought 
it  was  great  fun. 

But  there  were  kindly  neighbours  about, 
thoughtful  ones,  too,  with  blankets  and  warm 
wraps,  and  profuse  offers  of  hospitality.  A  group 
of  these  stood,  talking  excitedly,  for  a  few  min- 
utes after  John  had  brought  his  family  down  in 
safety.  One  had  smelt  the  smoke,  and  another 
had  dreamed  of  flame;  and  all  had  spare  rooms 
or  spare  beds,  and  pressed  hospitality  on  them. 

Meanwhile  the  crowd  stood,  and  John  and  his 
family  stood  always  a  little  further  off,  and  again 
further,  watching  the  growing  fire ;  care  was  nec- 
essary, bricks  were  beginning  to  fall,  the  smoke 
was  increasing.  They  stood  and  watched  the 
windows  blacken  with  smoke,  and  the  flames  in- 
crease. There  was  no  water  for  the  hand-engine, 
and  part  of  the  hydrant  could  not  be  found;  the 
doomed  house  crackled,  and  John  knew  that  the 
roar,  which  was  as  of  wind,  was  the  roar  of  the 
flames  that  were  increasing  in  intensity,  that  inside 


302  BACCARAT 

the  house  were  licking  up  and  destroying  the 
home  where  he  had  once  been  so  happy. 

It  was  not  until  the  house  was  well  alight,  and 
at  last,  in  the  distance,  they  heard  the  shouts  of 
the  firemen,  the  quick  trot  of  the  horses'  feet,  the 
rattle  of  the  harness,  that  some  one  asked  care- 
lessly where  were  the  servants,  how  had  they  got 
out? 

"  It  was  Jane  who  heard  it  first,  and  rushed  to 
give  the  alarm.  She  called  out  to  Marie,  and 
Marie  came  down  to  me.  Marie  took  baby.  I 
went  to  our  children." 

Even  now,  at  such  a  moment,  it  did  him  good 
to  hear  that  she  had  left  the  baby  to  Marie,  that 
it  was  to  his  children  she  had  rushed. 

The  engine  pulled  up  with  a  rattle,  and  the 
firemen  leapt  to  their  places.  Whence  Marie 
came  he  did  not  know,  he  realised  only  that  she 
was  on  her  knees  at  Julie's  feet,  and  that  her  words 
were  broken.  For  the  moment  he  was  all  con- 
fused. He  saw  Julie  seize  hold  of  Marie  and 
shake  her,  then  scream  out,  like  an  animal  in 
pain,  and  seize  Marie  again,  as  if  she  would  tear 


BACCARAT  303 

her  to  pieces ;  he  wrested  his  eyes  from  his  blazing 
home. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it,  Julie?"  he  asked. 
"  Hush !  you  must  not  do  that.  Are  you  mad  ?" 

For  Marie  was  kneeling  at  Julie's  feet,  her  eyes 
streaming;  and  Julie,  his  sweet  and  gentle  Julie, 
was  pounding  her  in  the  face  with  both  hands, 
was  beating  on  her  with  her  fists,  and  moaning, 
and  wildly  talking: 

"  Oh !  she  has  left  my  baby  behind,  the  monstre, 
the  wicked  woman.  Levez-vous!  Allez-vous  en! 
I  hate  you,  I  hate  you!  I  am  going  myself;  I 
am  going  to  fetch  it.  John,  leave  me  go." 

She  struggled  against  him,  but  he  held  her, 
grasped  her  beating  hands,  and  tried  to  quiet  her 
frenzy  against  his  breast. 

"  Julie,  my  dear,  look  for  yourself,  it's  impos- 
sible. You  have  the  others,  see,  you  are  frighten- 
ing Genie,  Jack  is  looking  at  you."  For  indeed 
at  that  instant  it  did  not  seem  serious  to  him  that 
the  croupier's  baby  had  been  forgotten. 

"  My  baby,  my  mignonne,  my  little  baby !  I 
want  it,  I  must  go.  John,  I  must !" 


304       ^         BACCARAT 

She  struggled,  she  bit  at  his  restraining  hand. 

Marie  was  sobbing. 

"  Oh !  Madame,  pardonnez-moi,  the  smoke  it 
was  effrayante!  I  ran  after  Madame,  pour 
Vaveriir,  but  Madame  was  so  quick.  She  was 
up  the  stairs,  and  I,  I  could  not  get  back  to  the 
room."  She  wrung  her  hands.  "  Madame  ne 
veut  pas  me  regarder.  See!  Je  suis  briiler.  I 
went  back  but  I  could  not  .  .  ." 

"  John."  She  tried  to  be  calm,  because  her 
heart  was  bursting.  He  would  not  hold  her  so 
tight  if  she  was  calm. 

"  Let  me  go,  John,  cheri."  But  still  he  held 
her  against  him,  and  the  flames  died  and  leapt, 
and  leapt  again  in  the  doomed  house. 

"  My  dear,  my  dearest,"  he  said. 

The  pity  in  his  voice  made  her  quiet  against 
his  breast,  she  heard  the  beating  of  his  heart. 
Surely,  surely  he  did  not  want,  he  did  not  mean 
that  because  of  how  the  baby  had  come  .  .  .  No, 
no !  her  John,  she  wronged  him.  She  kissed  the 
hands  at  which  she  had  bit  in  her  struggle,  the 
tears  streamed  down  from  her  eyes  upon  them. 


BACCARAT  305 

"  Oh !  John,  forgive  me.  But  it  is  my  baby ;  I 
cannot,  cannot  leave  it  there." 

"  Look  for  yourself,"  he  said  sullenly,  he  knew 
what  was  in  his  mind.  It  was  God's  answer,  it 
was  that  for  which  he  had  asked.  The  baby 
would  die.  He  remembered  dully  his  dream  in 
the  sea.  Well,  it  wasn't  his  fault,  he  had  done 
nothing  to  bring  it  about,  he  had  fetched  out  his 
own!  His  heart  was  beating  thick  and  quick. 
As  if  she  knew  its  treachery,  she  would  not  rest 
against  it  or  hide  her  head  against  it  from  the 
doomed  house. 

But  still  she  begged  to  him,  prayed  to  him, 
knelt  to  him,  and  clasped  his  knees.  And  the 
voices  of  the  neighbours  broke  on  his  ears, 
through  her  prayers.  The  flames  were  eloquent, 
they  reddened  the  sky.  The  engine  was  in  posi- 
tion now,  the  hydrant  fixed,  but  still  the  flames 
shot  into  the  night,  and  defied  the  water. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  they've  left  the  baby 
up  there?" 

"  Oh !  the  poor  darling !"  There  was  the  sound 
of  women  crying. 

20 


306  BACCARAT 

"  The  firemen  will  fetch  it,  if  there's  a  chance," 
some  one  said,  quite  subdued. 

"  It's  too  late  now,  I'm  afraid,"  and  the  mas- 
culine voice  was  shaken. 

And  still  she  was  begging  to  him,  praying  to 
him. 

"  Oh !  John,  John,  you  won't  let  it  die,  seul,  up 
there  ?  You  won't  ?  it  is  not  like  you,  you  won't  ? 
It  is  alone,  in  its  little  cradle,  John !  Let  me  go, 
let  me  die  with  it,  at  least.  Oh !  darling,  darling 
John,  I  feel  what  is  in  your  heart.  You  are  not 
sorry!  I  cannot  bear  it." 

A  man  must  hold  his  own!  What  was  his  own ? 
Up  there  one  risked  one's  life.  But  of  what  value 
was  life,  if  one  had  lost  one's  self-esteem,  and 
one's  wife's  love? 

"  You  can't  do  it,  John,"  she  moaned  against 
his  feet.  "  You  can't  let  it  die.  It  was  for  this 
your  strength  was  given  you." 

Out  from  her  mouth  leapt  the  message  that  he 
had  heard  in  the  sea,  startling  him,  shocking  him 
into  action.  His  indecision,  his  spasm  of  tempta- 
tion was  gone. 


BACCARAT  307 

"  No,  I  suppose  I  can't,"  he  said. 

She  knew  now  she  had  read  his  heart  beats 
aright. 

"  I'll  get  back,  you  stop  here.  It  will  be  all 
right."  So  a  man  keeps  his  manhood. 

But  then  she  saw  the  smoke,  and  smothered 
flame,  and  suddenly  clung  to  him  again,  and  held 
him,  even  as  he  had  held  her. 

"  No !  no !  no !  you  must  not  go." 

His  heart  leapt  again  when  she  bade  him  stay, 
and  clung  to  him  again.  So  a  man  holds  his  own. 
His  temples  throbbed,  but  his  vision  was  wondrous 
clear,  this  was  why  he  had  not  been  allowed  to 
waste  his  life,  why  the  waves  had  flung  him  back. 

"  Here,  let  go ;  we  mustn't  waste  time.  Marie ! 
see  to  her.  Genie,  Jack,  take  care  of  her." 

A  hush  fell  upon  them,  and  upon  the  little 
crowd  that  watched  with  them  beyond  the  gate. 
John  kissed  his  wife. 

"  Take  care  of  her,"  he  said.  Some  man  pressed 
forward,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  him,  but  John 
did  not  notice  it. 

This,  then,  was  the  answer  to  all  his  doubts. 


308  BACCARAT 

He  had  known  that  the  night  held  a  message  for 
him.  Well !  a  man  can  die  only  once.  And  she 
was  right;  he  could  not  leave  the  little  helpless 
thing  that  she  had  borne,  in  the  hell  of  flame  up 
there,  without  making  some  effort  for  its  succour. 
There  are  some  things  a  man  can't  do,  and  this 
was  one  of  them. 

He  shouldered  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
thrilled  to  a  sudden  quiet.  He  heard  the  whis- 
pers: 

"  The  baby  is  up  there." 

"  He  is  going  back." 

"  The  firemen  will  never  let  him  go." 

"  You  watch.  If  John  Courtney  means  a  thing, 
he'll  do  it." 

He  got  through  the  gate,  whither  they  had 
dragged  the  hose,  and  some  of  the  crowd  surged 
in  after  him,  curious  to  watch.  The  escape  had 
not  yet  come,  for  nobody  knew  there  was  any 
one  left  in  the  house.  Those  men  in  helmets, 
waiting  for  the  escape,  used  to  danger,  told  him 
he  must  go  no  further,  it  was  not  safe.  He  thrust 
them  aside.  Well!  he  could  see  for  himself. 


BACCARAT  309 

They  let  him  look,  scanning  his  big  figure,  moved 
by  his  grey  face. 

There  was  no  escape;  but  there  was  a  long 
ladder,  from  which  a  fireman,  hose  in  hand,  was 
playing  on  the  roof,  while  another,  half  way  up, 
stood  there  to  call  out  warning.  John  ran  lightly 
up  after  them.  The  man  on  the  ladder  tried  to 
obstruct  him,  to  make  him  go  back.  But  the 
strength  of  the  man  on  the  ladder  was  as  nothing 
to  John's,  who  went  on  climbing  coolly.  The 
flames  roared,  they  were  like  the  sea  in  his  ears. 
It  was  for  this  then  that  the  sea  had  not  held 
him,  but  had  borne  him  back,  and  cast  him  on 
the  shore.  He  had  a  contract  to  keep;  the  baby 
was  part  of  it.  He  had  said  he  would  forgive 
everything,  forget  everything,  and  he  had  for- 
given nothing,  but  remembered  everything.  This, 
however,  was  his  chance.  It  isn't  every  fellow 
gets  a  chance  given  him.  If  it  were  to  be  done, 
he  would  do  it.  Up,  and  ever  up,  fighting  flame 
and  smoke,  he  slowly  won. 

Because  he  did  not  want  the  baby  in  his  house, 
because  he  had  wished  its  death,  he  was  ashamed. 


310  BACCARAT 

He  had  broken  his  promise  in  the  spirit,  if  not  in 
the  letter.  He  felt  now  that  he  had  been  a  cur 
over  it.  God !  how  the  smoke  belched  out,  trying 
to  beat  him  back,  and  fighting  with  him  inch  by 
inch  for  foothold !  He  heard  a  crash  from  inside 
the  house.  That  must  be  the  drawing-room  ceil- 
ing ;  the  staircase  must  be  a  mass  of  flames.  The 
smoke  was  hot,  and  burnt  his  face  as  if  it  had 
been  flame.  But  now  his  hand  was  on  the  sill; 
the  heat  had  broken  the  window,  and  he  was 
quickly  in  the  room.  He  did  not  hear  the  cheer 
go  up  as  he  disappeared  through  the  window. 

How  quiet  the  room  was,  just  as  he  had  pict- 
ured it;  but  the  smoke  confused  him.  They  were 
playing  on  this  side  of  the  house,  the  other  was 
hopeless.  He  heard  the  swish  and  fall  of  the 
water  as  it  pattered  on  the  floor  above  his  head. 
The  room  was  full  of  smoke,  black  and  venomous, 
smarting  his  eyes,  burning  his  throat.  Sparks 
were  falling,  they  burnt  his  grey  hair  in  patches, 
and  his  coat,  too,  was  burning.  He  groped  his 
way  to  where,  in  his  drowning  dream,  the  cradle 
had  stood,  and  he  found  it  there,  enveloped  in 


BACCARAT  311 

smoke.  He  did  not  wait  longer  than  to  feel  that 
the  bundle  of  flannel  lay  in  its  place,  and  to  snatch 
it  to  his  arms.  It  was  for  this  his  strength  had 
been  given  him !  But  the  room  swayed  about  him, 
as  it  had  swayed  in  his  dream.  If  he  had  not 
promised  her,  if  he  did  not  owe  it  its  life,  because 
he  had  failed  in  his  promise  to  her,  how  good, 
how  easy  it  would  be  to  lie  down,  to  rest,  to  dream 
again!  .  .  . 

It  was  lucky  the  firemen  had  followed  him,  for 
the  smoke  had  overwhelmed  him.  He  had  saved 
the  baby;  the  bundle  was  in  his  arms.  The 
flames  were  dying  out,  the  water  had  conquered 
them,  but  it  was  the  smoke  that  had  overpowered 
John. 

When  they  dragged  him  out,  and  dashed  water 
on  him,  and  forced  brandy  down  his  throat,  he 
still  clung  to  his  burden.  He  must  give  it  back 
to  Julie  himself. 

"  Leave  me  alone !  let  me  get  to  her !"  that 
was  all  he  said,  struggling  to  his  feet,  semi- 
conscious. 

They  made  a  pathway  for  him,  men  standing 


312  BACCARAT 

with  uncovered  heads,  women  with  streaming 
eyes.  He  was  a  pitiable  figure,  black,  burnt, 
staggering,  with  the  bundle  in  his  arms,  the  baby 
that  was  already  cold  and  stiff,  and  had  been  dead 
for  hours. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  braved  death  for  it.  In 
the  years  to  come  he  could  remember  that  he  had 
won,  not  stolen,  his  peace,  that  a  man  must  fight 
for  his  own,  and  that  he  had  fought  for,  and 
won,  his. 


THE   END 


By  LOUIS  BECKE 


Mr.  Becke's  work  is  stamped  by  vigor  of  expression 
and  an  intensely  dramatic  imagination. 


BY  REEF  AND  PALM   and   HIS   NATIVE   WIFE. 

Illustrated.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  EBBING  OF  THE  TIDE. 

iamo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

RODMAN  THE  BOAT-STEERER,  AND    OTHER 

STORIES. 
RIDAN,  THE  DEVIL. 

THE  TAPU  OF  BANDERAH. 

YORKE,  THE  ADVENTURER. 
HELEN  ADAIR. 

CHINKIE'S  FLAT,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 
BREACHLEY— BLACK  SHEEP. 
GERRARD. 

Large  121x10.     Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.50  each. 

THE      STRANGE      ADVENTURE      OF      JAMES 
SHERVINTON. 

Illustrated.     8vo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 


J.  B.    LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,    PHILADELPHIA 


THE  ISSUE 

By  GEORGE  MORGAN 

Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50 


"Will  stand  prom- 
inently forth  as  the 
strongest  book  that 
the  season  has  given 
us.  The  novel  is  a 
brilliant  one,  and 
will  command  wide 
attention. " — Phila- 
delphia Public  Led- 
ger. 

"The  love  story 
running  through  the 
book  is  very  tender 
and  sweet." — St. 
Paul  Despatch. 

"  Po,  a  sweet,  lov- 
able heroine."  — 
The  Milwaukee 
Sentinel. 

' '  Such  novels  as 
'  The  Issue '  are  rare 
upon  any  theme.  It 
is  a  work  that  must 
have  cost  tremen- 
dous toil,  a  master- 
piece. It  is  superior 
to  'The  Crisis.'" — 
Pittsburg  Gazette. 

' '  The  best  novel 
of  the  Civil  War 
that  we  have  had." 
— Baltimore  Sun. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


A  SEQUENCE   IN    HEARTS 

BY  MARY  MOSS. 

Author  of  "  Fruit  Out  of  Season,"  "Julian  Meldohla." 
1 2 mo.     Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Miss  Moss  sees  life  as  a  sunny  comedy 
and  tells  of  it  with  cheerful  relish.  The 
characters  are  all  human.  The  story  is 
sparkling  with  vivacity  and  good  humor." 
— Pittsburg  Commercial  Gazette. 

11  The  characters  are  well  drawn  and  there  is 
plenty  of  humor  and  a  great  deal  of  satire  fur- 
nished by  Cousin  Romola." — Worcester  Spy. 

"A  love  story  of  to-day  marked  by  un- 
usually clever  character  drawing  and  a  fund 
of  quiet  humor  and  sharp  satire." — Trenton 
Times. 

"A  cleverly  written  and  thoroughly  inter- 
esting story  of  the  present  day." — Chicago 
Tribune. 

"  The  book  is  full  of  vivid  touches,  showing 
a  shrewd  analysis  of  character,  a  fine  kind  of 
humor  as  an  underdrift,  and  a  cheerful  tone 
brightens  up  the  tragic  atmosphere." — Syra- 
cuse Herald. 

"  Decidedly  clever,  and  well  worth  reading." 
— N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 


J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA 


OLIVE  LATHAM 

By  E.  L.  VOYN1CH 

Author  of  "Jack  Raymond"  and  "  The  Gadfly."       Cloth,  $1.50 

• '  The  author's  knowledge  of  this  matter  has  been  pain- 
fully personal.  Her  husband,  a  Polish  political  refugee, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  was  arrested  and  thrown  into 
a  vile  Russian  prison  without  trial,  and  spent  five  years 
of  his  life  thereafter  in  Siberian  exile,  escaping  in  1890 
and  fleeing  to  England.  Throughout  'Olive  Latham' 
you  get  the  impression  that  it  is  a  veritable  record  of  what 
one  woman  went  through  for  love.  .  .  .  This  painful, 
poignant,  powerfully -written  story  permits  one  full  insight 
into  the  cruel  workings  of  Russian  justice  and  its  effects 
upon  the  nature  of  a  well-poised  Englishwoman.  Olive 
comes  out  of  the  Russian  hell  alive,  and  lives  to  know 
what  happiness  is  again,  but  the  horror  of  those  days  in 
St.  Petersburg,  the  remembrance  of  the  inhumanity  which 
killed  her  lover  never  leaves  her.  ...  It  rings  true. 
It  is  a  grewsome  study  of  Russian  treatment  of  political 
offenders.  Its  theme  is  not  objectionable — a  criticism 
which  has  been  brought  against  other  books  of  Mrs. 
Voynich's. ' '  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"So  vividly  are  the  coming  events  maae  to  cast  their 
shadows  before,  that  long  before  the  half-way  point  is 
reached  the  reader  knows  that  Volodya's  doom  is  near  at 
hand,  and  that  the  chief  interest  of  the  story  lies  not  with 
him,  but  with  the  girl,  and  more  specifically  with  the 
curious  mental  disorders  which  her  long  ordeal  brings 
upon  her.  It  is  seldom  that  an  author  has  succeeded  in 
depicting  with  such  grim  horror  the  sufferings  of  a  mind 
that  feels  itself  slipping  over  the  brink  of  sanity,  and 
clutches  desperately  at  shadows  in  the  effort  to  drag  itself 
back."—  New  York  Globe. 


J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


PIGS    IN    CLOVER 

BY  "FRANK  DANBY" 

8vo.     Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

"  By  far  the  most  powerful  and  searching 
piece  of  fiction  of  the  year." — The  Bookman. 

"  Has  a  vigor  like  that  Charles  Reade  used 
to  show." — Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  A  powerful  society  and  political  romance 
which  is  still  more  powerful  as  a  novel  of 
character." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"The  most  effective  realistic  novel  of  a 
decade." — PROFESSOR  GUY  CARLETON  LEE. 

"The  book  is  written  with  insight,  sincerity 
of  purpose,  and  rugged  virility." — The  New 
York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  One  of  the  most  powerful  and  sustained 
stories  read  in  many  months." — DR.  HARRY 
THURSTON  PECK. 

"A  novel  of  unusual  power,  brilliant,  and 
full  of  insight  into  character.  It  is  a  book 
to  read." — Detroit  Free  Press. 


J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA 


At  the  Time  Appointed 

By  A.  MAYNARD    BARBOUR 
Colored  Frontispiece  by  Marchand     -     -     Postpaid,  81.50 

The  Washington  Post. 

"A  good  mystery  that  stimulates  the  imagination  and 
excites  the  deepest  interest." 

Doylestown  Intelligencer. 

"A  volume  that  once  started  will  be  read  through  to  the 
the  end.  It  has  thrills  galore,  unexpected  situations, 
mysteries  enough — in  fact,  it's  the  real  thing." 

St.  Paul  Dispatch. 

"  A  study  in  character,  and  a  very  unusual,  original 
love  story." 

Pittsburg  Dispatch. 

"  A  stirring  and  dramatic  love  story." 

By  same  Author 

That  Mainw&ring  Affair 

Illustrated.     Postpaid,  $1.50 

New  York  Life. 

"  Possibly  in  a  detective  story  the  main  object  is  to  thrill. 
If  so,  '  That  Mainwaring  Affair'  is  all  right.  The  thrill 
is  there,  full  measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over." 

New  York  Town  Topics. 

"  The  book  that  reminds  one  of  Anna  Katherine  Green 
in  her  palmiest  days.  .  .  .  Keeps  the  reader  on  the 
alert,  defies  the  efforts  of  those  who  read  backwards, 
deserves  the  applause  of  all  who  like  mystery." 

Denver  News. 

"The  reader  will  be  a  good  guesser,  indeed,  if  he  solves 
this  mystery  before  the  author  does  it  for  him.  A  pleas- 
ant love  interest  runs  through  the  pages." 

Publisher.  :  J.  B.  Lippirvcott  Company  :  Philadelphia 


JACK 

RAYMOND. 

By  E.  L.  VOYNICH. 

I2tno.     Cloth,  $1.50;   paper,  50  cents. 

"  The  strongest  novel  that  the  present  season  has  produced.' 
Pall  Mall  Gazette,  London. 

"  Wonderful  and  terrible  ;  wonderful  in  its  intellectual  effect 
terrible  for  the  intensity  of  feeling  effects." — Boston  Courier. 

"One  of  the  uniquely  interesting  stories  of  the  year." — The 
World,  New  York. 


SISTER 
TERESA. 

By  GEORGE  MOORE. 

izmo.     Cloth,  $1.50;   paper,  50  cents. 

"A  psychological  study  of  extraordinary  power,  revealing  the 
fineness  of  George  Moore's  literary  methods." — Philadelphia  Press. 

f '  Absorbing  to  the  end  as  a  narrative,  '  Sister  Teresa  '  is  also  a 
remarkable  exhibit  of  finished  thought  and  skill. " — New  York  World. 


J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA. 


m  s\  ml      ""••"I  "I"' Hill  Hill  Illl  || 


